A Single Magic
by pipenerd
Summary: Harry defeats the Dark Lord, but in the Wizarding world nothing is as it seems. Slash: HP/TRLV, brief HP/OMC, reminiscences of past TRLV/AM. Chaptered. WIP.
1. Chapter 1

_"You know quite well, deep within you, that there is only a single magic, a single power, a single salvation…and that is love."_

-Hermann Hesse

**Author's Notes:** This is a novel-length fic that was inspired by my shipmates at the S.S. Sssssss, Fiction Alley Park's forum for discussing the Harry Potter/Tom Riddle-Lord Voldemort ship. I began writing it several months ago, and put down because I knew it would be very time-consuming to finish and I have a few more pressing obligations to honour. In the meantime, I wrote a fic called **Full House **from what had originally been Chapter Two (now Chapter Three).

Because of the encouragement of people like **Saint Bananianiown**, I'm going to start posting it, but _please_ don't expect frequent updates. Althoughit is true that the *ahem* _proper sort of inspiration_ will undoubtedly motivat me to write faster!

This story is basically canon compliant through Order of the Phoenix.

Thanks to my beta **hobtheknife**.

* * *

As the moon rose above the Riddle manor, black smoke drifted lazily in the stillness of the night. The front door had been blown open, and the splintered remnant gaped wide on broken hinges. Smouldering fires had broken out, caused by spells that had missed their targets, and a smoky haze wafted through the house. Broken furniture, shards of glass, and gouges in the plastered walls indicated the path the conflict had taken as it surged through the once-elegant mansion. Bodies of the dead and wounded sprawled in the hallways and rooms, bypassed as the fight moved onward. The battle still continued in isolated pockets, but there were fewer combatants now. Fatigue had set in, and the wizards on both sides had become more wary, taking advantage of cover and concealment as they pursued each other through the house in the final, murderous clash of the Order of the Phoenix and the Death Eaters.

Upstairs, in Lord Voldemort's library, the situation was much the same. The ornate mirror above the mantle had been shattered, but the delicate crystal chandelier remained untouched, above the line of fire. The draperies at one window were in flames, the glass in the other window had been broken, and Harry stood on the balcony just outside the French doors, doubled over in pain.

The Dark Lord had finally succumbed to a barrage of spells cast with wandless magic, and had collapsed to the floor. Harry was certain that his enemy was dying; as he had cast the last spell, he felt as if something inside him had been ripped apart, and the pain from his scar was blinding. Through the psychic connection that he shared with the other wizard, he knew that Voldemort was in horrible agony.

Harry was unable to maintain the concentration to Occlude his mind from Voldemort's suffering, but he also knew that if he didn't manage to focus his thoughts, everything that had been accomplished here tonight would be undone. He was certain that Voldemort still had existing Horcruxes, magic of a high order that would restore his life. Dumbledore had suspected that there had been six of the charms; the diary, the ring and the cup had been destroyed, but that meant there were still three left.

Covering his mouth with his sleeve, Harry forced himself to return to the library and Extinguished the flames. He glanced at the motionless wizard on the floor with a pang of conscience; although he had felt it his duty to utterly destroy the threat that the Dark Lord had posed to the Wizarding world, he wondered, not for the first time, why the Killing curse, which brought instantaneous death, was considered Unforgivable, while other curses that killed more painfully and slowly were legally justifiable.

Averting his eyes from the body, he tried to calmly examine in turn each object on the desk and shelves, looking for antiques, family heirlooms, anything that might be connected with the Founders of Hogwarts. As he paused in deliberation, a voice behind him hissed, "You are wrong." A huge snake slithered into the room and coiled, tongue flickering, beside the fallen wizard.

"What do you mean?" Harry recognized Nagini, Voldemort's pet, and warily readied a defensive spell. Nagini was no ordinary creature, and whether she possessed magical powers or not, Harry respected her physical strength and deadly fangs, and knew she would protect her master.

"There isss only one left."

Dumbledore had suspected that Nagini might herself be a Horcrux, and Harry quickly spoke the charm that revealed hidden magic. But the snake was, after all, merely a sentient creature, one who now reared protectively over her master's still form.

"Only one?" Harry repeated. They were speaking in Parsel, the speech of snakes, a language that was incapable of expressing deception, and he guessed there was much she might tell him if he could somehow manage to ask the right questions.

"Did you think he made five Horcruxesss, or ten? In number, there were more than all the hatchlingsss in my clutch!* He lived to the utmossst, and never ssshirked from danger. He usssed them all, except the very firssst."

_The first._ Harry guessed at once that she must mean the relic of Slytherin, the locket Voldemort's mother had pawned to provide food and shelter for herself and her unborn child. "Where is it?" he demanded.

Nagini's fangs glistened in the flickering light. "My Master cannot ussse it. He isss too clossse to death," she hissed.

Voldemort was silently convulsing on the floor, and Harry once again felt a shadow of compassion for his enemy. The Dark wizard had cheated death many times before, through the knowledge he had laboriously gleaned over decades. He had amassed a fortune, gathered an army of loyal followers, and relentlessly pursued forgotten magics. His personal courage was legendary; he had killed countless wizards in single combat. Harry and the Order had fought him relentlessly, inexorably destroyed his accomplishments, drained his financial resources, and annihilated his forces. Now, at the hour of his death, all his accomplishments had been brought to nothing.

But even if Voldemort was incapable of using the final Horcrux, Harry needed to find and destroy it. As long as it existed, a portion of the Dark Lord's soul remained, imprisoned and dormant, a talisman for any of his followers who might desire to take his place. Voldemort had challenged him here, in the library, for a reason. Harry's eyes roamed the book-lined shelves, the tables, the mantle. And then, the pain from his scar was abruptly gone, and the impressions he had been receiving from Voldemort's consciousness ceased. He turned to Nagini.

The cobra hovered above her Master, silently watching his still form. "He isss dead," she announced.

Harry suddenly cried out in pain as whatever it was inside him that had been torn earlier was completely severed with a sharp wrench. Collapsing to his knees, his vision clouded with tears and he remembered Professor Slughorn's words to Tom Riddle: killing rips apart the soul. In taking Voldemort's life, he had a destroyed a part of himself. Someone else, Harry thought, might see the tragedy in a destiny that had led two orphans, so similar in appearance and temperament, to become linked by murder and driven by vengeance to kill each other.

But Harry had no time to feel sorry for himself and couldn't afford to waste more sympathy on the man he had killed. He managed to get to his feet, and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. The locket…Harry struggled to recall why he needed to find it.

His mind had been linked to Voldemort's for so long, the silence in his head left him with an intense feeling of desolation, and his thoughts were more confused than before.

He raised his eyes to the serpent. "Where is the locket, Nagini?" he hissed.

The serpent shook her head. "You ssshall not have it!"

"He's beyond harm," Harry told her gently. "It belonged to his mother. She would have wanted him to have it."

Nagini studied him unblinking, and then finally nodded toward a bust of Salazar Slytherin that stood on a pedestal. Harry felt around the ornate carving at the top of the stand, pressing his fingers along the raised designs until he heard a click and a small drawer popped open. Inside was tucked a velvet pouch. He untied the silk cord and poured a fine chain, tarnished by age, into his hand; an oval locket bearing the Slytherin crest was attached to the links. Harry was overwhelmed with sadness as he thought of the young Merope, abandoned in disgust by her Muggle husband upon learning that she was a witch, selling her most prized possession in order to continue living for her unborn child. The life she had bequeathed her son had been his only worldly possession, and Harry had succeeded in tearing it from his grip, not through superior magic or strength or even cunning, but because Voldemort had been distracted for a moment. Harry could take no pride in his victory.

"Why are you sssad?" the snake asked. "It isss good to dessstroy the one who hasss tried to kill you."

"My entire life centred on him," Harry answered, after a moment. "Now he's dead, and I'm finally free to live my life. I know that people are going to say that I'm a hero, but I don't feel very heroic. There's an empty space inside me, and I don't know what to do."

Tears splattered across his hand as he looked at the locket. Harry knelt by the corpse that had been his hated foe, the most powerful Dark Wizard who had ever lived. He pressed the lifeless fingers closed around the locket, and held the cold hand in his.

After a time, he felt the serpent stir at his side. "Look!" Nagini hissed.

Light was streaming from beneath Harry's hand, growing brighter with every passing moment. Harry tried to let go, and realized with horror that he could not. The snake drew back from the intensity of the light, but Harry could only turn away and shield his eyes. He tried frantically to think what was happening; he could only guess that the Horcrux had somehow been activated, but could not imagine why he was unable to let go of the body, or what effect the Horcrux might have upon a corpse.

Minutes passed, while Harry was unable to uncover his eyes to see what was happening. Finally, the light subsided and he heard Nagini slither forward. Harry was finally able to pull his hand free, and turned uneasily to see what magic had been wrought by the locket.

It lay, bright and untarnished, in the Dark Lord's outstretched hand. Voldemort's appearance had changed, his youth restored by death. The features which Harry had always found handsome were composed, his hair was thick and black, his skin pale and smooth. Harry felt another wave of regret. The wizard who had been the Dark Lord deserved a proper burial, Harry thought, but doubted that the Ministry of Magic would allow it. His wet tears fell on Voldemort's face. He could smell smoke from the fires below and knew it was time to leave. Wiping his eyes, Harry decided that he would help rescue the injured, and then finish burning the house. It would be his enemy's funeral pyre.

He turned to tell Nagini his intentions, but his wrist was seized in a strong grip.

"Weeping for me?" Voldemort asked. "How very touching, Harry."

* * *

*I have chosen to depict Nagini as an Egyptian cobra, and individuals of that species lay as many as twenty eggs per clutch. In other words, Voldemort had made - and used - more than twenty Horcruxes.


	2. Chapter 2

_"You know quite well, deep within you, that there is only a single magic, a single power, a single salvation…and that is love."_

-Hermann Hesse

**Author's Notes: **Yes, my friends, hell _has_ frozen over! It's taken over two months to finish this chapter, but you _were_ warned at the outset! Thanks for your patience and words of encouragement. I know that I promised bedroom foolishness in this chapter as compensation for the long delay, but Lord Voldemort completely took over and I had to defer the slash until the next chapter. I hope you will still find this an enjoyable read without the flirtation and innuendo.

This story is basically canon compliant through Order of the Phoenix.

Thanks to my beta **hobtheknife**.

* * *

It is said that Death is a being, the Grim Reaper, the last enemy to be conquered. Lord Voldemort, who had averted Death more often than anyone who had ever lived, knew this to be nonsense.

Death was a door.

The instant in which Potter's Coruscating spell had slipped past his guard, striking the hand he had been using for defense and exploding up his right arm, he'd realised that he had only a few seconds before his nervous system began to shut down. He had anticipated possible injury and with a single word activated the net of spells he'd kept in readiness to staunch any trauma before shock set in and his ability to concentrate receded. He knew from previous near-Death experiences that he needed to maintain the proper focus just long enough to activate a Horcrux. However, Potter was still dangerous and any second might speak the words that would put an abrupt end to the Dark Lord's plans. Voldemort decided to risk hurling a curse at Potter -

- only to see the chandelier swaying directly overhead. He realised too late that he'd lost his balance and fallen. Time was of the essence, but he could not bring to mind the words of the Horcrux charm. Hissing filled his mind, but he was no longer able to distinguish language in the sounds. He could sense his spells disintegrating, one by one; he heard the silence as his heartbeat ceased, and felt the air crushed from his lungs as his chest fell for the last time.

But somehow, even as every other faculty failed, he was still able to sense the presence of magic. Some of it radiated from Harry and, without knowing exactly how he did it, Voldemort tapped into the power, using it to try to locate the Horcrux he knew was nearby.

He had experienced forcible eviction from his body frequently enough as not to be overly alarmed, but he was acutely aware that the time required to complete the Horcrux charm was growing short. It wasn't enough to have magically imbedded a portion of the soul in an object; the charm needed to be activated in order for the phenotype to restore the physical body and then, with the final incantation, reunite it with the soul fragment.

He was aware that Death's Door was swinging open and felt the powerful attraction exerted by the world that lay beyond it. There was a wrench and he was floating above his body. He noticed that Nagini was loyally poised above his still form, guarding it as she had done on previous occasions. Potter was searching the room, doubtless looking for the Horcrux himself. A cold wave of anger washed through him, but he forced his attention back to the immediate task; he would deal with Potter after he'd achieved the more urgent goal of averting personal annihilation.

With difficulty in his disembodied state, he finally located the ethereal golden cord that leashed the sliver of soul to the locket. Grasping it firmly, he began the sequence that would activate the charm –

- and an irresistible gust violently swept him from the room, propelled him at breakneck speed through a tunnel of light and then unceremoniously hurled him into the darkness beyond the Door. The only thing that prevented his visit from being a permanent one was the iron grip he'd maintained on the cord attached to the Horcrux.

He hovered just inside the threshold, trying to calm his mind. Of course, it wasn't his first passage through the Door, but it did mean that his survival on the physical plane was that much more precarious. Time was quickly becoming his enemy and any further delay in the process could be fatal.

In spite of the danger, he couldn't help but notice that the Doorway was a busy place just now. Wizards and witches were crowded together along with Muggles who had recently passed through. Although a few seemed to be panicking at this unwelcome turn of events, most were placidly waiting to be conducted to a destination of one sort or another. Some were being carried away in the arms of winged beings in regal robes. A few were clustered on the banks of a broad river, watching the ancient ferry that was returning empty from the other side. Several familiar-looking witches and wizards were waiting on what incongruously appeared to be a train platform.

Voldemort had, in the course of his previous visits, beheld many sorts of entities on this side. A few were seekers, sorcerers or mystics who had entered a trance state and left their bodies behind as they travelled beyond the threshold in search of information. Then there were the various species of beings that seemed to dwell in this world and apparently belonged to an altogether different order of existence; some of them were benevolent while others were malign and dangerous. He had once witnessed a band of waiting souls joyously greet the arrival of a creature wearing a vaguely human shape with a shining countenance and shimmering wings; a moment later, their elation turned to terror as the angelic form sprouted a myriad tentacles and its mouth yawned impossibly wide to devour all of them.

In spite of his determination to leave as soon as possible, he paused when he recognised Rabastan Lestrange among a small cluster set apart from the rest. He absently counted six of his Death Eaters and three who had been Aurors, along with four or five others who had presumably perished in incidents unrelated to the recent battle at the Riddle mansion. Perspective was distorted in this peculiar place and as he turned his attention to the scene, it grew in size as if he had drawn closer.

An elegant black carriage appeared, drawn by two leonine creatures, and the arrival excited a stir among the waiting Wizarding folk. When it finally came to a stop and the compartment door opened, the group hushed and not a few heads craned expectantly as a figure stepped from the vehicle.

"Tom!"

He turned from the scene to see a figure drawing swiftly near through the tunnel. It was that of a witch and he experienced something of a shock as he realised the identity of the crone who paused before him. She had been an intelligent and lovely girl, he recalled. At one time she had been drawn to him and his cause but her devotion had unfortunately dissolved beneath the prying scrutiny of that busybody, Dumbledore. "Minerva," he returned with an impassive gaze.

"Oh, Tom," she began earnestly. "it isn't too late! We can pass through together- "

But whatever she had been going to suggest was lost in a deep rumble of laughter. "Lord Voldemort is a _wizard_, Minerva! What do you think he might possibly find of interest in the insipid sort of eternity to which lesser souls aspire?"

The personage who had spoken wore the shape of a man but any impression of humanity was contradicted by the aura of immense power that radiated from his presence. He wore an elegant dark suit of contemporary Wizarding cut and a cloak of rich azure was thrown over his wide shoulders. Dark hair hung down his back in curls and a thick beard reached to the middle of his broad chest. He spread his arms and smiled with teeth that were very white.

Recognition dawned in Minerva's startled eyes. "Prince Kassapraxites?" she ventured.

This time his laughter held no mirth. "Did I not once hear you say that the stories of the god of wizards were merely tales told for the amusement of children?"

Minerva clutched her hands to her breast in a gesture that might have been either defense or supplication. "No- I mean yes, I didn't believe-"

"Yet I appeared to you in dreams and answered your prayers," the deity growled. Minerva shrank backward, shaking her head as if to refute his words.

The golden cord in Voldemort's grip gave a twitch and he was sharply reminded of his crucial objective. Leaving the two of them to their discussion, he wound the cord around his hand and moved forward, slowly pulling himself back up the brilliant tunnel.

He was drawing near to the opening at the other end when a shape appeared at his side. "Do you require assistance, my friend?" Kassapraxites enquired. Voldemort glanced over his shoulder and was unsurprised to see the princely god still deep in conversation with Minerva at the tunnel terminus. He pressed forward without reply, saving his strength for the task ahead of him.

"Oh, you remain independent to the last," the immortal continued. "Truly, you have been my favourite among all the Dark Lords."

At this, Voldemort raised a sceptical brow. "More even than Grindlewald?"

Kassapraxites's countenance darkened, but then a peal of laughter burst from deep within his chest. "Neither courage nor perspicacity have deserted you in this predicament! I see there is nothing that can defeat you, my lord. Remember, no matter what circumstances may befall you, I will always answer when you call."

Voldemort paused on the threshold and nodded once. It would not do, at this juncture, to offend so mighty a being without cause. Kassapraxites grinned and clapped his shoulder with a strength that propelled him back through the Door.

He perceived that a great deal of time had passed, though he refused to give credence to the nagging worry that perhaps he had been gone too long to reclaim his life. He gathered his will and flew toward the spot where his shed body lay. A scintillating cloud roiled above it, raw energy without physical substance: magic. _His _magic. The shimmering force paused in its restless movement, and then seemed to coalesce into a vaguely human form. Even in this disembodied state, he felt anger at the thought that Potter wouldn't even recognise it, or use it if even he'd noticed its presence. And at the thought, his will became adamant: as long as magic existed in the world, there must be a wizard strong enough to wield it, unafraid of its power, with vision to bend it to his will. He _would _live again.

The words of the Horcrux charm formed in his mind and the golden cord grew bright, stronger than a chain of antique gold, more tenacious even than grief. With a sensation that was not unlike Apparation, he was yanked forward, squeezed into a singularity and threaded through an aperture roughly the size of a locket.

Like a baby drawing its first breath, he cried out as the charm reunited his body and soul. Opening his eyes, he saw himself reflected in two round lenses. The irony of the situation brought a taunt to his lips and he grasped Potter's wrist with an unfamiliar strength, but before he could pronounce a curse the shock that always followed re-embodiment claimed his consciousness.

He awoke with that sense of eased discomfort which presages recovery from a long illness. For the first time he could recall, his body was without pain and his senses were unhindered. He was aware that he was stretched out upon soft, thickly padded fabric that rested on a firm surface. He detected particles of dust and an aura of age in the air he inhaled, tinged with the tang of youthful vitality and the tell-tale vibration that always accompanies magic. The left side of his body was cold, in contrast to the warmth of his right side. He noticed the source of the heat was accompanied by faint and regular sounds, and there seemed to be a weight on that side as well, that caused his body to turn slightly in that direction.

It took a few moments for him to realise that someone was sleeping next to him.

Although he was accustomed to sleeping alone, this did not trouble him as much as perhaps it ought. There was an indefinable aura of comfort and security emanating from this presence. He imagined that a child might sense such perfect safety with a parent or sibling.

He stumbled upon the realisation that he could not remember having experienced the reassuring embrace of a mother's arms or a father's protective presence. A gulf opened before him as he wondered whether he had lost his memories and frantically tried to recall who he was, what he had done, _anything._

Then knowledge ignited and flared within him, a searing light which drove away the shadows and doubt from his conscious mind.

Lord Voldemort opened his eyes, fully himself once again.

A low fire of obviously magical origin flickered in the fireplace and illuminated the bedroom. When he turned his head, hair tickled his nose and eyes. He hardly dared to believe, but – it was Potter.

He considered the young man incongruously sleeping at his side, head against his shoulder, right arm flung across his chest, the fingers of his empty wand hand twitching as he dreamed. _Interesting. _He reached out with his mind at the same time as he commenced a search among the bedclothes with his hand, but there seemed to be no wand in the room.

Frowning, he analysed the situation. Potter had defeated him in a formal duel. Instead of alerting the Aurors, he had taken him somewhere – probably the mansion he'd inherited. He'd taken the precaution of depositing their wands elsewhere before falling asleep in the same bed. Although Voldemort knew that Potter tended to improvise rather than plan, there seemed to him but one explanation for this behavior, and it held no more appeal to him than would finding himself in the custody of the Ministry.

He wanted his wand. He needed more information.

Voldemort performed the mental adjustment that allowed him to slip inside Potter's mind. The younger wizard was dreaming: arguing with his friends, the pure-blood Weasley boy and the Muggle-born witch. The disorganization of Potter's thought processes provided an effective, if unintentional, defence against Voldemort's search and he finally gave up with a sigh.

He deepened his enemy's sleep and extricated himself from beneath him. There was nothing for it but to explore his enemy's territory for answers. He opened the door and set off into the house, a cobra stealthily prowling the den of a sleeping mongoose.

**Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment!**


	3. Chapter 3

_"You know quite well, deep within you, that there is only a single magic, a single power, a single salvation…and that is love."_

-Hermann Hesse

**Author's Notes:** It's been about fifteen weeks since I posted the last update, so I suppose it could be rationalised that I've written a page a week since then. On the other hand, the slash is no longer implied, so: go, me!

This story is basically canon compliant through Order of the Phoenix.

Thanks, as always, to my wonderful beta, **hobtheknife. **Additional thanks to **meikitsune** for insight and concrit.

This one is dedicated to **batsutousai** and **mtroubadour**. If not for their encouragement, I might never have gotten around to writing this chapter.

* * *

_Harry was climbing from sleep into wakefulness. It was a difficult struggle up a steep slope, pulling himself hand over hand along a golden cord. Behind him, he could hear Professor McGonagall's voice, still in a heated discussion with the bearded wizard with eyes like a dragon. Ahead of him, at the summit, he saw a room lit by firelight._

_"Weeping for me, Harry?" Lord Voldemort asked. His appearance had changed and Harry couldn't help thinking how handsome he was. _

_"You mussst hurry," Nagini hissed urgently. "It isss too dangerousss to ssstay here."_

_Harry cast his Invisibility cloak over the great serpent and her master just as Ron burst into the room. "We've got to get out! Someone cast a Fiendfyre curse and we can't put out the fire!"_

_"I have to follow up on something important!" Harry shouted. "I'll meet you later at Grimmauld Place!" With one last pull, he hauled himself into the room and threw himself on the bed. "I just want to close my eyes and rest for a few minutes. Just a few minutes…need to rest…"_

Harry's first thought upon awakening was one of relief: it was over and everything was going to be all right.

Then his eyes flew open, and the events of the previous night came back in a rush: the battle at the Riddle manor and his duel with Voldemort. He looked around, blinking and trying to clear the shreds of dreams from his head - and then his heart began to thud as he realised that there was no one else in the room.

He jumped up and looked about frantically. The door to his bathroom was ajar and he crept closer to listen for a moment before peering inside. The air was steamy and he swore out loud when he saw the wet shower and his toiletries in disarray. He turned on the hot water tap at the sink and let it run for a few seconds before checking the temperature. Apparently, his captive had used all the hot water. Harry, on the other hand, was steaming. Had the evil bastard used his toothbrush, too?

He stormed back into the bedroom with a sense of purpose but then stopped short. Number Twelve Grimmauld Place was a huge house and for all he knew Voldemort was already gone. He was trying to decide on a reasonable course of action when he noticed a movement in the painting over the chest of drawers. "Phineas! Is that you?"

The scene was a garden in which several children in old-fashioned clothing were playing a game with sticks and a hoop. A clever-looking wizard with a dark pointed beard peered at him from around the side of a trellis overgrown with roses. "Oh," he said. "I see you're finally awake after your busy night."

"Phineas, did you seen the man I brought home?"

"I assure you, Potter," the man in the painting drawled, stepping into full view, "I have no interest whatsoever in the young men you bring here - or the things you do with them."

Harry choked back a retort. "Fine, okay. Look, this is important - "

"Tell me something first," Phineas Nigellus said, his tone of voice a reminder that he was not only a member of the pure and noble House of Black but that also once he had been the most detested Headmaster to ever preside over Hogwarts. "May I assume that this particular man is the wizard you said you had defeated in a duel?"

"Yeah, that's why - "

"Do you understand the implications of your victory?"

Harry was in no mood for one of Phineas' pointless lectures. "I defeated him and took his wand. He's powerless."

Phineas sighed. "Just as I thought. There have been lamentable lapses in teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts in recent years - "

"Excuse me, but can you get on with it? There is a Dark wizard on the loose in my house!"

"If he is powerless, then why did you ask me to take your wands for safekeeping? Why are you so worried about his whereabouts?"

"I can't let him escape! He's still a threat -"

"Calm down and listen to me!" Phineas snapped. They glared at each other until Harry finally nodded.

The painted wizard eyed him intently. "Did you discuss any terms before your duel commenced? For instance, did you agree that the fight would end when one of you had been disarmed or blood had been spilled?"

Harry shook his head. "No, we didn't really have time to talk about anything first. It was more like we both made a simultaneous decision to kill each other."

Phineas raised an eloquent eyebrow.

"So he didn't stay dead! I told you that he's a Dark wizard!"

For the first time, Phineas regarded him with something like respect. "Dumbledore spoke of Horcruxes…Potter, you are a very lucky young man. Not only have you defeated a very dangerous wizard in a duel, but you now have him at your complete and utter mercy. I congratulate you."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked slowly.

"The point of a duel is to redress what an aggrieved party perceives to be an affront." The former Headmaster launched into full lecture mode. "If, however, one of the participants is disabled and has refused to ask pardon, the victor is permitted to spare his life. He may take or even, if he wishes, break the wand of the wizard who was vanquished. In any case, the defeated wizard is in the unenviable position of awaiting the judgement of the victor and is as constrained to accept whatever penalty is imposed as if he had sworn an Unbreakable oath to do so. Your errant foe has, in effect, been rendered unable to perform magic until you decide what sort of reparation will satisfy your quarrel – and until he fully complies."

It took Harry a moment to absorb this revelation. "You mean he has to do whatever I want?"

" 'To the death' appears implicit in your duel last night. However, there are rather unusual circumstances in this case. If you feel that his transitory demise redressed your grievance, then you may say so and your quarrel would be over. If, however, you require further compensation, it is your right to impose further conditions."

"How long do I have to decide?"

The wizard in the painting absently slapped a pair of gloves against his leg as he considered his answer. "It should be done as soon as possible. I should think that twenty-four hours would be sufficient, even with a situation this complicated."

Harry took a deep breath. "Thanks for telling me about all this. But I still need to find him."

"Under the circumstances, Potter, I don't believe it is possible for him to leave the premises."

Harry winced; he obviously wasn't at his best this morning. He and Voldemort shared a connection that could be exploited. He closed his eyes and felt a prickling sensation in his head that radiated from his scar. More dusty rooms, another door that would not open…The Dark Lord's investigation of the house had apparently been less rewarding than he'd hoped. Harry felt relieved. "I'll start looking for him on this floor. Would you mind - ?"

"As a matter of fact, I do mind!" Phineas snapped, making Harry wonder for the first time what sorts of daily activities a figure in a magical painting might possibly have planned. "But I suppose I'll have to find the time to help you find your wandering wizard! Wait here!" he ordered. The children in the painting stopped their game for a moment to watch him as he strode purposefully from the frame.

"Wait – Phineas! I want my wand! Phineas!" Harry swore in frustration and waited in view of the painting for nearly a minute before going into the bathroom. He picked up his toothbrush and eyed it with suspicion, muttering a Scourgifying charm just to be sure. He stood in the doorway with one eye on the picture frame as he brushed his teeth and then, seeing the painting was still vacant, he quickly washed his face. It was a peculiar sensation to lather with the same bar of soap that Voldemort had used earlier, but he quickly put that thought from his mind. He had a much bigger problem.

From the moment Dumbledore had revealed what the Prophecy meant, he'd hoped to find a way to stop Voldemort without becoming a killer himself, but every time he arrived at the point where the Dark Lord was vanquished but still alive the dilemma became even more difficult. There was no point in the Ministry sending him to Azkaban because the Dementors who had once guarded the prison had defected to Voldemort's side and no one had yet solved the problem of how to guard incarcerated wizards. They would probably execute him, but again that would leave Harry ultimately responsible for his death, which was the outcome he had been trying to avoid all along. Last night, when he had been fighting for his life, Harry had automatically resorted to lethal magic but when confronted with his enemy's rebirth, he had realised that he simply could not kill him again. Voldemort had been weak as a kitten, incapable of defending himself, and having spared his life, Harry now felt something of a duty to protect him.

Furthermore, he wondered what sort of reparation he could possibly demand that could compensate for Voldemort's many crimes. It was true that he had killed Harry's parents and had tried to kill him, but Harry hadn't fought him last night just because of those things. He badly needed advice from someone more experienced, but there was no one in the Order he could count on to be impartial when it came to Lord Voldemort. Phineas was still away and even so, Harry was uncertain whether he would be able to provide any answers. It seemed he was on his own.

As he dried himself, Harry recognized that all this was going to unfold in the same unexpected way as had everything else in his life. He could hardly imagine a worse predicament, with Voldemort wandering about the house and the members of the Order of the Phoenix expected to start drifting in at any moment for a debriefing on last night's battle.

He had just reached for a clean shirt from the closet when the door opened.

It was Voldemort.

They regarded each other for what seemed a very long moment. Harry was frozen to the spot, his thoughts tumbling over each other in confusion. It had been far easier to confront the Dark Lord last night at the Riddle manor because it had been the culmination of years of preparation and training. But at this moment, instead of the exhilaration that accompanied the rush of battle, he felt his confidence dissolve in a sudden rush of anxiety.

When he had been twelve years old, Harry had met the ambulant memory of a handsome young wizard that had been stored in a magical diary. He had been clever and charming, and Harry had been dazzled. It was the first crush of his new life in the Wizarding world and he had fallen all the harder upon learning that Tom Marvolo Riddle had been a brilliant student, a half-blood orphan like himself who spoke Parsletongue, and who had even saved Hogwarts from a terrible menace. Even when Tom had revealed himself to be a particularly malevolent Horcrux-ghost of the young Lord Voldemort, Harry had to admire his tenacity and his will to live. It was only by clinging to the conviction that Tom wasn't actually a real person that Harry had been able to destroy him.

But the fact was that he'd never been able to forget him, either. Thoughts of Tom had haunted his daydreams and accompanied his fantasies. He'd never been able to discard the feeling that Tom had been attracted to him, seen something more in Harry than just an opportunity to destroy the boy who had vanquished his future self.

In any event, Harry had convinced himself that the reality of defeating the threat presented by a living Dark Lord was far more important than any emotions he might feel for an animated memory and had tried resolutely to fulfill his mission to kill Voldemort. And yet, here was the object of his longing, standing in the doorway to his bedroom, even more handsome than Harry remembered, a rebuke to his most deeply hidden desires.

Voldemort shut the door behind him and the room seemed immediately to grow smaller. "You were sleeping so soundly when I left that I had hoped for the pleasure of waking you myself," he said with a thin smile. He was dressed in elegant black robes that were lined with expensive-looking green fabric. Harry guessed that he must have appropriated the garments from one of the many wardrobes in the house. It made him feel distinctly scruffy in comparison.

The perspective changed and Harry briefly saw himself through the other wizard's eyes: untidy shoulder-length black hair, old glasses muting the green of his eyes, wiry arms, more dark hair across the lean chest and trailing in a ragged line between his ribs, gathering at the navel and vanishing into the loose waist of his trousers. With a flush of embarrassment, Harry pulled his shirt over his head with fingers made suddenly clumsy by unwelcome scrutiny. It was one thing to sense an enemy's grudging respect – it was quite another to feel his eyes linger with what Harry would have called 'interest' had it been anyone else. Harry forced those thoughts from his mind – this wasn't a social situation and the man before him presented a threat. "You were half-dead when I brought you here last night. I see you've had an amazing recovery," he said irritably. It was no surprise that his head started to hurt.

"Remarkable indeed, all things considered," Voldemort agreed with a pleased expression. "I admit that I was a bit surprised to find you in bed with me when I awoke this morning. I've never before slept with someone who had tried to kill me."

Harry thought that he seemed altogether too smug, considering the situation. "It was a new experience for me, too," he pointed out, adding, "and I didn't just_ try_ to kill you."

The other wizard's smile grew broader. "Your house-elf didn't seem at all surprised to see a new face first thing in the morning. I found the implication that I'm not the first man you've brought home for the night to be quite interesting."

"So, I have a life!" Harry was indignant. "Did you think I spent all my time practising magic and hunting Dark wizards?"

"Were_ I_ in your position, that's what _I_ would have been doing," Voldemort said condescendingly.

Harry was trying to frame a retort when a tray with cups and covered plates appeared on the dresser with a rattle of china.

"I had breakfast sent up," the Dark wizard smugly informed him.

It just then occurred to Harry that he had missed something of real significance, and he turned the past few moments of conversation over in his mind, trying to discover what that might have been. "Wait a minute - you were _downstairs_?"

"Yes, I just told you. I spoke to your elf and had him send - "

"Did anyone see you?" Now Harry was truly anxious. He had no difficulty imagining one of his friends strolling in for coffee and an update, and encountering the Dark Lord the kitchen, casually reading the Daily Prophet at the counter as he waited for the kettle to boil.

"The elf!" Voldemort repeated with asperity. "I certainly didn't make the food myself."

Harry walked past him with a scowl and lifted the cover from one of the dishes. The enticing aroma of cinnamon wafted up from a stack of thick slices of French toast and a low rumbling in his stomach reminded him that he hadn't eaten since yesterday. He picked up a half and devoured it. "Did you want to talk about something important, or do you just want to make rude comments about my lifestyle?"

Voldemort laughed. The sound was so different from the high-pitched sound Harry was accustomed to hearing from him - so normal – that he stared in spite of himself. "By all means, Harry, let us discuss matters of importance. I wonder whether you understand the nuances of the situation. Our current impasse, for instance."

"Actually, I understand it quite well," Harry told him coolly as he reached for another slice. He was rewarded by a look of annoyance that briefly flitted across Voldemort's countenance. "This is my house," Harry continued, "and for the time being, you're under my protection."

"I am well aware that the house you inherited from your godfather is the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix." The Dark wizard watched him eat for a few moments. "I seem to have mislaid my wand. I don't suppose that you've you seen it about?" Voldemort's attentiveness belied his tone of casual indifference.

"It's…somewhere safe." Harry intentionally avoided meeting his eyes; no point in making things any easier for him.

"Of course. I should have known." He scanned the room and noticed the only chair. Sitting down, he carefully arranged his robes around him and the ancient armchair took on an almost regal character. "It's a shame that we've never had a civil conversation before this."

It occurred to Harry that the situation was starting to look less like an interrogation than an audience. "That's not my fault," he pointed out. "You always start throwing curses, and having to dodge spells doesn't make me especially…" he searched for the right word and settled on one of Hermione's favourites, "…loquacious." He bit into another slice of French toast and poured a mug of coffee, hoping the caffeine might help his headache.

"Then let us correct that oversight. Where would you like to begin the discussion: with our similarities or our differences?"

Harry shook his head with vehemence. "I'm nothing like you!"

"You permitted me to live," Voldemort observed, watching him intently.

"That's because it suited my plans at the time!" Harry retorted hotly.

The Dark wizard's smile grew smug. "Then we're even more alike than I imagined."

"You're wrong," Harry argued. "Unlike you, I refused to become a killer. That's the difference between us!"

"You acted out of self-interest. That makes us very much alike."

Harry shifted impatiently. "Look, do you always do what you want?"

Voldemort's eyes were alive with interest. "No, of course not."

"Why not?"

"Because the most attractive option isn't always the wisest."

"Exactly!" Harry waited expectantly for his reaction.

"I see," Voldemort said at last. "You are attempting to subvert the Prophecy. To what end?"

"I don't have any grand strategy," Harry assured him. "I'm making this up as I go along." He poured another cup of coffee and sat down on the bed. His head still hurt, but he had a feeling that the situation might be improving.

"You must want something," the Dark wizard mused.

"Oh, I want lots of things," Harry agreed amiably. "But I'll settle for being able to live life on my own terms, knowing that you'll never be able to hurt anyone again."

Voldemort studied him for a long moment. "I would like to make a confession."

Nothing could have surprised Harry more and he tried to hide it behind a carefully neutral voice. "Oh? What's that?"

"I seriously misjudged you - from the beginning and constantly thereafter." When Harry showed no reaction, he continued. "I often said there was nothing special about you; I was wrong. You are indeed an exceptional wizard. Many things might have been different if only I had recognised it earlier."

"Such as?"

Voldemort sighed. "It was foolish to make you my enemy."

"It's not as if I would ever have joined you," Harry pointed out.

"But there were other possibilities. I made you my target and that distorted my original goals."

Harry grimaced as he swallowed the rest of his coffee and poured another mug; one cup just wasn't going to do it this morning. "You mean the Prophecy changed your plans."

"I allowed myself to be distracted."

Harry felt a bit insulted. "You killed my parents because they were a _distraction_?"

"I killed your parents as a matter of self-preservation," Voldemort clarified. "After all, they had dedicated themselves to killing me."

Harry ran a hand through his hair; the pain in his head was making it difficult to think and he definitely needed his wits about him. He took his mug over to the bed and sat down. "What about Hepzibah Smith?"

Voldemort actually smiled. "I found Miss Hepzibah a delightful old woman, though terribly foolish. She simply doted on me."

"I happen to know that she was killed shortly after she showed you the Locket of Slytherin, and a Cup that had belonged to Helga Hufflepuff." Harry looked for some sign that he had hit a nerve, but the other wizard merely appeared introspective.

"Miss Hepzibah was from a noble family, and owned many things of historic value," Voldemort recalled, his eyes growing distant. "Her only living relative was her niece, who was fond of jewels and frocks and parties. Unfortunately, the girl became involved with a Muggle boy who cared little for her exalted lineage or for the fact that she was a witch, but thought much of the fact that she had a wealthy aunt. He incurred a debt far beyond his means and one day he accompanied the niece to demand an enormous sum. When Miss Hepzibah refused, he killed her.

"After her death I recognised Hufflepuff's Cup at an antiques stall in Birmingham and decided to investigate. It took a few days to track down the niece. She had begun to feel remorse for her part in the crime and had tearfully remonstrated with her Muggle boyfriend who responded by treating her in cruelly. When I discovered the miserable girl, she told me everything and offered to sell me the only item of value in her possession – the locket that had belonged to Slytherin. I gave her far more than Miss Hepzibah paid for it, I might add."

"So you killed the boyfriend?"

Voldemort raised his eyebrows. "What do you think?"

"What about your father and grandparents?" Harry's voice was sceptical.

"Oh, my father deserved it, and doubly so. When I presented myself at the family manor, my grandparents were appalled to learn that he'd abandoned my mother and the grandson they'd never known and they threatened to disown him on the spot. He was so fearful of losing his inheritance that he killed them with an overdose of their evening heart medication, and was calming his nerves with a second brandy when I came downstairs for dinner."

Harry was growing more annoyed. "D'you expect me to believe that you're innocent of everything you've been accused of? Because that's a load of - "

Voldemort's eyes narrowed. "I've done both more and less in my life, little lion, than you've heard from Dumbledore and his precious Order! A reputation like mine tends to acquire embellishments over the course of time, but there's no point in refuting the exaggerations. I don't mind being thought responsible for every heinous deed that captures the imagination of the Wizarding world. The point is that you, Harry, are the only living person who can verify the facts."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, reigning in his temper.

"Parseltongue, and the nature of the connection we two share. The structure of Parseltongue is such that the speaker is unable to dissemble. In ancient times, all Wizarding folk spoke it as our native language. Non-magical humans recognised our inability to tell falsehoods and called us soothsayers, 'truth-speakers'. Unlike the Muggle cultures around us, we esteemed the concept of truth beyond any anthropomorphic deity and developed it into our guiding philosophy. The civilisations of antiquity integrated it into their religions under names like Ma'at or Logos or Awen."

Unaware that his coffee mug had slipped to a precarious position, Harry listened intently, the grip of his fingers unconsciously relaxing on the handle.

"We can, of course, continue this conversation in Parseltongue," Voldemort went on. "However, if you still have doubts, there is another way to satisfy yourself that I've been speaking the truth."

Harry immediately realised what the Dark wizard meant: the rebounded curse had left each of them with the means to access the mind of the other and they'd both exploited that ability in the past, to gain information as well as to mislead. Harry vividly remembered the time at the Ministry of Magic when Voldemort had used the link to possess him and there had been a distinctly erotic overtone to the encounter as they struggled to occupy the space of one body. Harry couldn't help feeling that that, unless he had been specifically Occluding those particular thoughts, Voldemort had to be familiar with the secret fantasies about him, the ones that Harry hated to acknowledge even to himself.

The pressure of his headache grew suddenly sharper and, without warning, the empty mug slipped from his fingers. He grabbed at it reflexively but he hadn't played Quidditch in years and, instead of the graceful catch he intended, he fell off the bed in an uncontrolled dive and ended up on his elbows and knees on the floor - but he did manage to grab hold of the mug before it spilled coffee all over the antique rug.

Stunned, it took a moment for him to absorb the significance of the white cloth that appeared in front of him. "_Accio_ napkin," the Dark Lord said dryly, and Harry realised that the other wizard had knelt down next to him to make the offering. He had the feeling that Voldemort didn't kneel very often.

Harry sat back and accepted the napkin, feeling a faint tug at his conscience. Wiping the coffee that had sloshed from the mug from his hands, he recognised that the Dark wizard was masterfully playing the sympathy card by demonstrating his powerlessness and yet, at the same, time Harry could guess how much it had cost him to even acknowledge his present inability to use magic. Still, he wasn't going to let Voldemort think he could be manipulated so easily "I think," he muttered, "that you're enjoying this way too much."

"What about you, Harry?" the other wizard returned. "Aren't you finding this conversation pleasant?"

Harry's heart began to thud louder in response to the low rumble of his voice.

A corner of Voldemort's mouth twitched. "Our destinies have suddenly become more closely entwined. It can only benefit me to work with you at this juncture." He took the mug from his hand and placed on the nightstand while Harry tried not to think about the pleasant tingle that remained where their fingers had briefly touched. The Dark wizard smelled disconcertingly of Harry's own soap and shampoo and the younger wizard found the effect of the sudden proximity more than a bit uncomfortable.

"I don't need to look into your mind," Harry said doggedly. "I know what you are. I just need to decide what to do with you."

"On the contrary," Voldemort countered, "you hardly know me at all. Perhaps you don't think it worth your time to bother."

"That's not-" Harry began to feet a bit dizzy, and his scar was tingling.

"You have me completely in your power," Voldemort said softly, "and there are so many possibilities before you." He drew closer and Harry nearly forgot to breathe as he looked into the depths of his eyes. He felt the other wizard's mind touch his in a gentle caress, and Harry felt his defences begin to give way. He tried frantically to think of something – anything - to give him strength to resist: Lily's screams. Sirius falling. Cedric's staring eyes. Dumbledore lying broken at the base of the tower. Harry's eyelids drifted down, his chin tilted as he leaned nearer…

Very few people are ever granted the opportunity to kiss the object of their fantasies, and as Harry brushed his lips against the other wizard's he felt a thrill that reawakened all those years of unsatisfied cravings. He gently cupped Voldemort's handsome face in his hands and kissed him slowly, savouring the myriad sensations that were so much better than his fantasies had ever been.

Months had passed since the break-up of his relationship with his first and only boyfriend that Harry no longer knew with absolute certainty how long it had been since the kisses he'd given and received had been more than friendly pecks. All he knew was that this kiss rendered every other one he'd experienced empty and devoid of passion.

Losing his balance, he toppled forward, and they both ended up in a tangle of limbs on the floor. Harry laughed at the almost comical look of consternation on the face that for years had been his last thought each night before sleep had claimed him. Awkwardly straddling the man who had been his enemy, he trailed a finger across Voldemort's bottom lip and mastered his surprise when his mouth opened at the slight pressure. Harry instinctively pressed closer, the pain in his head replaced by the thunder of his racing pulse in his ears as, impelled by a force he didn't understand, he bent down and claimed the Dark wizard's mouth.

Voldemort was acquiescent beneath him, permitting this familiarity without actually reciprocating. I bet he's never kissed a bloke before, Harry thought, dazed. He sensed Voldemort's amusement at the thought, and then –

"What do you think you're doing?" Tom demanded.

Inexplicably, Harry was looking into grey eyes that were dark with desire.

His mind worked frantically to figure out what had happened. He could feel a determined tugging at his throat and the owner of the grey eyes laughed softly as he unknotted Harry's tie. "It's rather delightful that someone so brilliant has completely failed to notice all my scheming and machinations over the past year," he said with an aristocratic British accent.

The scene had that sort of wispy quality that Harry associated with memories stored in a Pensieve but there was an immediacy that erased the objectivity of his previous experiences with viewing the recollections of others. He could feel the solid presence of a wall against his back and the very different pressure of a thigh pressing between his legs. Most peculiar of all, he felt his lips move and heard a voice that was not his own emerge from his mouth. "Is this a mutiny, lieutenant?" It was Tom Riddle's voice and Harry abruptly understood that he had somehow entered one of Voldemort's memories. There was no sense of detachment; it was almost as if he were reliving a moment in his own past – and given the situation, Harry thought that it was a memory he would probably have revisited frequently.

"Certainly not, my lord," the young man drawled. "Though you may definitely consider it a kind of assault."

Harry could feel his pulse react as elegant fingers unbuttoned his collar. Ringlets of pale gold hair framed arching brows and high cheekbones, a nose that was a too sharp and lips that were a too thin to be considered attractive in a conventional sense. It was a countenance that seemed vaguely familiar, though, and Harry struggled to match a name to the face.

Quick as a striking serpent, Harry's hand shot up to seize the young man's wrist. "What do you mean?" he growled.

The young man – and Harry knew that he was a Malfoy, that his father had died the year before, and that he stood to inherit an immense fortune upon his next birthday – smirked and retaliated by pinching Harry's nipple. "Getting you to my house, up to my room, out of your clothes, into my bed." He bent close and Harry felt warm breath tickle his shoulder a second before teeth grazed the sensitive skin below his ear. He heard a groan and couldn't be certain which of them had made the sound.

"Not very romantic," Tom observed.

"Romance," Abraxas replied airily, "is a kind of deception. Sex is primal. It is possessed of an elemental purity." His hand skimmed along Harry's ribs, lingered a moment where his skin met the leather of his belt and then continued down the taut wool flannel of his trousers. A smile twisted his mouth as Harry grew harder beneath his caress.

"I wonder where you gained such expertise." Tom's tone was bantering. Harry pushed into Abraxas' hand and released his wrist to pluck the young man's shirt from the waist of his trousers.

"Last summer, a cousin - " Abraxas began, but apparently lost his train of thought as Harry began to unfasten his belt.

"This is rather bizarre as threesomes go," Tom remarked. "I wonder which of us it is that you fancy – Abraxas, or me."

Harry was once again looking down at Tom – Voldemort, damn it! This was becoming needlessly complicated. The abrupt change in perspective left him blinking as he tried to re-adjust to his surroundings. They were sprawled together where they'd fallen and although Harry was embarrassed to notice the fingers that were hooked into the waist of his trousers and his own painfully obvious state of arousal, he was completely mortified to discover his right hand squeezing the rigid bulge that was stretching the fabric of the other wizard's trousers.

"Sorry." Harry said quickly, though he wasn't entirely sincere. The Dark wizard's elegant robes were dishevelled, his pristine shirt rumpled and untucked, his face was flushed and his eyes were uncertain. Harry had to agree with Abraxas that it was rather delightful to see the most powerful Dark wizard in centuries overwhelmed by simple physical contact.  
He was, however, quite concerned about how the Dark wizard would react to the intrusion into his most personal memories. Harry recalled Snape's anger when he had inadvertently glimpsed some of his memories during Occlumency training and he could only imagine that the Dark Lord's rage would be much more terrible.

Contrary to his expectations, Voldemort merely frowned. "What have you to be sorry about?"

"Because of our duel, it wouldn't be right to take advantage- "

"There is no 'right'!" Voldemort's eyes glinted with a reddish light that cast his complexion into a waxy pallor and before Harry could reply he seized his shoulders in a grip so painful it was erotic and pulled him down into a savage kiss.

By this time, Harry was willing to concede that maybe there was no 'wrong', either. His headache had vanished and his mind was focused with a clarity that he had never before known. A sort of euphoria suffused his senses, causing a pleasant vibration through his limbs, and his pulse was thundering. Harry brushed aside dark, wavy hair and bent to press his lips to the other man's translucent eyelids. Cool hands rucked up his shirt and pulled him closer – and Harry froze in shock to realise that their hearts were beating in tandem.

"What- ?" he began, pulling away, only to gape in astonishment at the scintillating cloud of particles that surrounded them. "Do you see that?" Harry asked shakily.

The other wizard looked about with a frown. "You can see it too?"

Harry gasped as he sensed the raw energy of the swirling particles. "What is it?"

"That," Voldemort said, sounding just a bit like Phineas Nigellus, "is what magic looks like."  
"I never saw anything like it." Harry looked about, awestruck.

"I have. Under certain heightened conditions."

"When you were with Abraxas?" Harry guessed, hoping romantically that it was a phenomenon that accompanied the love-making of exceptionally powerful Wizarding folk.

"When I was…" Voldemort paused, considering. "When I was near death."

This alarming information wasn't what at all what Harry had expected. "So why can I see it now?"

"I rather blame your mother," the other wizard answered shortly, and drew him down to kiss him again.

Under ordinary circumstances, an invocation of his mother would have sobered him at once. He had just enough presence of mind to wonder whether whatever had overtaken them had anything to do with the Prophecy, but then the thought was lost in the yearning that consumed him. Harry passed beyond rational thought and into a state of pure reaction. He slipped his arms around the other wizard and kissed him with all the intensity of years of frustrated desire.

And then a shriek rent the air, echoing through the house. "Blood traitors! Filthy half-breeds, besmirching the house of my fathers!"

Harry jumped almost guilty and felt Voldemort tense beneath him. The mood was irreparably shattered. Harry sat up, noticing that the scintillating nimbus was gradually dissipating, re-establishing the boundary that made the wizards two separate beings. The gulf between them now seemed unnatural and the very idea brought back his headache.

"That's Mrs. Black's portrait in the foyer," he explained. "I have to go. The Order is starting to arrive."

Something akin to wariness appeared for the first time in the Dark wizard's eyes and Harry added, "It's all right, though. I won't leave you in a vulnerable position."

"Do you think me defenceless, Harry?" Voldemort purred.  
Harry blinked. "Well…erm…"

"I find that gratifying. I truly hope anyone else I may encounter will also believe me to be powerless."

In spite of himself, Harry was impressed by his self-assurance. "You don't ever give up, do you?"

A corner of his mouth turned up in a wry smile. "You don't need to ask."

Harry had a nagging suspicion that he was out of his league. They had been so close just a few moments before, almost as if they were one person and Harry had felt himself just on the verge of understanding the workings of the Prophecy. Now doubt assailed him and he wondered whether anything would ever be well again. "Do you feel any remorse at all?" he ventured.

Voldemort's eyes narrowed and Harry was afraid that he'd gone too far, but the other wizard considered the question and replied after a moment. "Of course I have regrets. Everyone who has truly lived has them. Remorse is an excuse fools use to explain their failures."

Harry silently digested that. Finally, he clambered to his feet. The other wizard ignored the hand he offered, and stood up with a graceful ease. Harry winced as Mrs. Black's shrill voice launched into another rant, heralding the appearance of another member of the Order. "Orion Black's study is just across the hall," Harry told him. "You can wait for me there. I'll spell the door to admit just me and the house elfs."

"Since I can't leave the house – yes, of course I tried – I suppose I suppose I have little choice in the matter. What about Nagini?"

Harry frowned. "She must be around somewhere. Probably in the cellar – there's plenty of rats. I'll let Dobby and Kreacher know."

"Kreacher?"

"A very old and extremely cantankerous house-elf," Harry explained. "He's sort of possessive about the place."

"I believe I can hold my own against a house elf, even a particularly vicious one," Voldemort said dryly.

Harry opened the door to the hallway and peered out. "Clear," he said quietly and beckoned the Dark wizard to follow.

He opened the door across the hall and Voldemort swept past him, looking about the study with interest.

"If you need anything- " Harry began.

"I'll let the house elfs know," the Dark wizard finished. His robes swirled as he turned to contemplate Orion Black's book collection. The audience was over; Harry had been dismissed.

With mixed emotions, Harry closed the door behind him and placed several protective charms upon it. He turned away resolutely and stood in the silent hallway, considering his options. Half-formed plans and desperate schemes contended for his approval and anxiety hovered in the background, but amid the confusion he noticed the faint vibration of the strange power that had possessed him earlier. His attention made it grow a bit stronger and, if he concentrated, he could still feel a weak current as it flowed through him.

There was no way for him to determine its origin, and it really made no difference whether it was a residual effect of the protection his mother had given him, or something from a more sinister source. Either way, he was going to put it to good use. It didn't matter that he didn't have a plan - improvisation suited him best anyway. Instead, he focused on his goal: he had a life to save.

There was a hollow thunk from below, and a gruff voice echoed up the stairwell. "Harry?"

He could sense the magical eye searching for him. "Be right down, Alastor," Harry called, and went downstairs to confront the next challenge.

**Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment!**


	4. Chapter 4

_"You know quite well, deep within you, that there is only a single magic, a single power, a single salvation__…and that is love."_

-Hermann Hesse

**Author's Notes: **Yeah, I know. This chapter took a damn long time to write. Thanks for staying with me.

This story is basically canon compliant through Order of the Phoenix.

Thanks to my beta, **hobtheknife**, and to** meikitsune**, for insight and concrit.

This chapter is dedicated to **Seventh Pathogen **and** Claudius**.

Thanks to alert reader **leianora **for pointing out an error of magical terminology! *hugs*

* * *

Harry had a mission: a life to protect, a secret to guard. So with each step further away from Orion Black's library he brought a vivid thought or memory to mind, focused intently on it, recalled as many details about it as possible and then used it to make a series of mental barriers. It wasn't a defensive tactic that would last very long if he were confronted by a skilled Legilmens, but it would buy him a little time, and would certainly conceal the truth from someone who was just unusually perceptive – such as the wizard who awaited him at the foot of the stairs.

Alastor Moody was as gnarled and weathered as the old staff upon which he heavily leaned. His one good eye was fixed on Harry as he walked down the stairs while his magical eye rotated in a manner that was unnerving to those who weren't used to it. When Harry reached the bottom step, a crooked smile appeared on Moody's scarred and lopsided face, giving it an altogether horrifying aspect. "You finally got him, Potter," he said with pride. "I knew that you would."

Harry silently nodded. Under the old Auror's approving gaze, he felt the weight of the Wizarding world's hopes and expectations settle over him once more. It was something else, he realised, that he shared with Voldemort, this pressure of being the focus of the aspirations of the people closest to him as well as those of his supporters at large. Harry quickly turned his thoughts away from that potentially dangerous subject and focused instead on the sound of voices drifting up the stairs from the kitchen.

"How are you?" Moody's voice sounded gruff as usual. "Did you sleep all right?

"Yeah, fine. I'm good," Harry answered too quickly. Swearing to himself at his ineptitude, he amended, "Well, I didn't sleep _enough_."

"Brought a friend home to spend the night, eh?"

Had he heard that from Dobby, had Phineas told him, or had his magical eye somehow seen there was someone upstairs? Harry wondered. At any rate, he needed to deflect Moody's curiosity. "Someone broke into my friend's place last night, and I thought it would be safer for him to stay here," he answered carefully.

The old Auror's expression became stern. "Could've been Death Eaters, you know. Anyone you're involved with could be a target. You have to maintain cons-"

"Not this time," Harry interrupted him, finally producing a smile. "It looks as if whoever it was hit several places in the same neighbourhood, probably looking for stuff to sell to make some quick money." He took the opportunity to change the subject. "What about the rest of the Order? I should probably poke my head in the kitchen and check on the others."

With a clunk, Moody stepped closer. "Some of our people got hurt last night."

Harry's stomach tightened. "Who-?"

"Granger, for one. Rodolphus Lestrange broke most of her fingers and gave her a concussion. He went on a rampage after his brother got killed. Temporarily blinded your friend Ron, and knocked Dean Thomas out a window. Tonks was holding her own against him when I got there, and we would've taken him into custody if some of the other Death Eaters hadn't shown up just then." Moody shook his head. "Problem with this war is we never had enough time to properly train you lot in the techniques the professionals use against Dark Wizards."

"Anyone else injured?" Harry asked hesitantly.

"Lupin got some bad burns when he rescued one of the Parvati girls from the Fiendfyre; she was treated and released, he won't be out of St. Mungo's for a week or so. Arthur Weasley got hit with some hexes, but we took care of him and sent him home."

Harry counted: six members of the Order out of commission. "It was one rough fight."

"Hope it will be the last one," Moody said grimly. "Longbottom and Shaklebolt were killed."

Harry's mouth dropped open, and he gripped the banister tightly. Neville…he could hardly get his mind around the idea that he was gone. And Kingsley, who had always been so sharp and fast…"What happened?" he finally managed.

"Neville was trying to kill that snake of You-Know-Who's when Bellatrix turned up. She Disembowelled him. Ginny Weasley used a Killing Curse on Kingsley."

That was becoming Ginny's trademark, Harry reflected. She'd vanished for three weeks in her Sixth Year, only to startle everyone by appearing with some of Voldemort's most trusted followers in what turned out to be a very public confrontation with the Order in Diagon Alley. A few weeks later in Hogsmeade, she'd openly accused Snape of being a traitor to the Dark Lord, challenged him to a duel, and killed him in front of a horrified group of students and Hogwarts faculty. It seemed as if she was personally determined to eliminate the most skilled members of the Order.

"No matter what happens with that girl, it's not going end well for the Weasleys," Moody muttered.

So Ginny hadn't been apprehended. Harry wondered about the other Death Eaters. "We got some of them last night, though, didn't we?" Harry's voice was almost plaintive. "Some of them must have been killed, you rounded up the rest and arrested them…"

Moody's expression was gloomy. "The only bodies I saw last night were Rabastan Lestrange and the one you Stupified on the stairway. The rest of them escaped, Potter." He struck the floor with his staff in frustration. "Every last one of them escaped."

Harry struggled to find something comforting to say. He knew that Moody must be wrestling with a sense of futility, tempered only by his belief that Voldemort himself was dead. Voldemort's death…A thought suddenly arose or, more properly speaking, a memory surfaced. "What happened to McGonagall?" he blurted.

The old Auror's real eye bulged and his magical eye swivelled to focus on Harry. "The Headmistress died quietly in her sleep at last night. I'd like to have your sources, Potter. I didn't find out until just a few minutes ago."

Harry wasn't exactly sure how he'd acquired that information, either, and it seemed like a good time to change the subject. "Do you want to sit down? Would you like some breakfast?"

"I'd take some coffee," Moody allowed, turning awkwardly on his artificial leg. "I still need to debrief you about your fight with Voldemort. Go on, say hello to the rest of them, then meet me in the parlour. I need to sit down - tripped over Arthur last night and wrenched my knee."

Harry was grateful to postpone having to lie to someone he respected as much as Moody and he quickly ducked down the stairs to the kitchen.

A cluster of cheerful faces turned to greet him, shadows of fatigue and worry lifting in the presence of their leader.

"Harry!"

"Hi, Harry!"

He resisted the impulse to cringe; he supposed that as far as they were concerned, the losses of the night before were the tragic price of defeating Lord Voldemort and the Death Eaters. He doubted that their feelings for him would be as warm if they knew the truth…

"Good morning, Harry, sir!" Dobby turned from the pantry where he was ticking items on a grocery list.

"Hi, Dobby. Would you send some coffee up to the parlour for Mad-Eye?"

"Yes, Harry, sir!" With a clatter, what appeared to be the same tray Harry had seen upstairs earlier appeared on the counter. Cupboard doors opened to discharge a variety of items that assembled themselves on the tray and Harry was relieved to notice that the novelty of the display distracted the visitors.

"Anything new around here?" Harry asked the elf in a low voice.

Dobby's eyes sparkled. "The new gentleman seems very nice."

"Appearances can be deceiving," Harry muttered under his breath, but a smile tugged at a corner of his mouth.

"I like him better than the last one. He seems to have many things in common with you," the elf mused. "When the War ends, will you bring him here to live?"

Harry turned the thought over in his mind. It had never seriously occurred to him that someday the War would be over and that there might actually be a chance for him to live happily ever after. He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to think of a much different Grimmauld Place, one where sunlight streamed through bright, airy rooms. He pictured himself in the family parlour, lounging on an overstuffed sofa with his head pillowed on the shoulder of a handsome, dark-haired man… "That would be brilliant, Dobby," he said wistfully, "but I'm not sure this particular gentleman is going to be around that long."

The elf's face assumed a forlorn expression and Harry immediately began to wonder about Dobby's own plans for the future. "I certainly wouldn't mind if you wanted to bring someone special here to live," he offered. For the first time he considered the private lives of house elfs. Did they marry? Did they reproduce in the usual fashion? Were they all straight?

"Harry Potter is kind and generous," Dobby said, almost to himself. "The new pot of coffee is ready now. Mad-eye Moody takes sugar and milk…" He intently began to rearrange the tray, making it obvious that Harry wasn't the only person being evasive this morning. "And Phineas Nigellus left your wand on the ledge of the frame of the _Still Life with Lemons,_" Dobby added.

That was the best news Harry had heard so far this morning. He darted over to the painting and grabbed his wand. "Merlin, I'm glad to get this back!" he exclaimed, tucking his wand into his belt.

"Come here, my boy!" Horace Slughorn called.

There was a scraping of chairs as Charlie and Ernie made room for him at the table. "We were at St. Mungo's this morning," Charlie told him. "Hermione's awake, but groggy. Viktor brought her parents when he heard the news. Ron's fit to be tied because they won't let him go home yet."

"How's your Dad?" Harry asked. He refused more coffee but poured himself a glass of pumpkin juice.

"Bill took him home. Mum's such a mess that the healers prescribed a sedative and they want her to come back in a few days for an evaluation." Charlie scowled. "One more reason to kill my psychotic sister."

"Ginny's the one who hexed Arthur," Ernie explained quietly.

There was a commotion at the back door and a chorus of greetings as Angelina, Katie, Seamus and Colin arrived.

"Harry!"

"You're all right!"

"I told you he'd make it!" Colin was beaming and the girls threw their arms around Harry with the same enthusiasm that followed a winning Quidditch match.

"How does it feel?" Seamus asked, thumping him on the back. "Having killed the most powerful Dark Lord in centuries?"

"It would feel a hell of a lot better if Neville and Kingsley were here," Harry replied, unable to keep a reproach from his voice.

A blush spread across Katie's cheeks and Angelina suddenly took an interest in finding chairs while Colin and Seamus stood looking abashed.

Harry turned to Slughorn. "Have you heard who will be taking over as Head at Hogwarts?"

The elderly Potions professor cleared his throat. "The Board of Governors contacted me this morning and offered me the position. I accepted, but of course I had a number of conditions. One was that they extend the DADA position to Lupin." He sighed. "Too many of our most talented witches and wizards have been sacrificed in this War and we can no longer afford to overlook gifted candidates on the grounds of past prejudices."

Luna spoke up. "What were your other conditions, Professor?"

"I proposed Andromeda Tonks to teach Potions. I also suggested her sister Narcissa Malfoy to fill the opening in Transfiguration."

"You're joking, right?" Charlie demanded as the others tried to follow the conversation.

Slughorn looked sternly around the table before speaking. "We can only prevent this sort of thing from happening again if we look forward to the future instead of harkening to the past. There must be no more disparaging of bloodlines of any sort. We must make our shared heritage our greatest strength."

"I'm not sure you'll be able to convince someone like Narcissa Malfoy to teach half-bloods and Muggle-borns," Ernie pointed out.

A heated discussion began and as the others joined in loudly with their opinions, Luna leaned across the table and touched Harry's hand. "You mustn't feel guilty about Neville and Kingsley," she told him quietly. "Their names will be remembered forever. Though I don't suppose," she added a bit wistfully, "that they'll be invited to dwell in the palace of Kassapraxites."

That name was strangely familiar and Harry stared at her. "What do you mean?"

"Kassapraxites is the patron of Wizarding kind, but he takes special pride in those who are very clever, the ones who discover new avenues of inquiry or who invent new spells or potions."

"What's this?" Slughorn interrupted.

"Harry asked about Prince Kassapraxities," Luna replied serenely. "You must know about him, Professor. He's son of Ea, the god who-"

"Gave us the gift of magic," Slughorn finished in a low voice. "But he had a falling out with the other gods when he taught humans how to split their souls so that they might become immortal."

"You mean he showed people how to make Horcruxes?" Harry choked out.

Slughorn nodded grimly. "I told you that it was ancient and forbidden knowledge."

There was a shriek from the portrait upstairs and conversation around the table came to an abrupt halt as they strained to recognise the voices of the newcomers.

"It's Fred and George," Angelina announced.

"I'd better go up and talk to Moody." Harry stood reluctantly as the group made room for the twins at the table.

"We brought the morning _Prophet_," Fred announced. "No surprise to anyone that there's no news about what happened last night."

His brother clattered down the steps behind him. "On the other hand," George called, "Professor Slughorn made the front page. Hey, we just got here, Harry! Where are you off to?"

"Debriefing. I'll be back in a bit." Harry tried to slip past them, but Fred grabbed his shoulder.

"Well done, Harry. Ron told us all about it this morning."

George's grin was devious. "If you think you were famous before this, you're in for a shock. Order of Merlin, First Class, I expect. Minister of Magic, whenever you're ready."

"All a lot of rubbish, of course, but you did real good last night," Fred added.

"Thanks," Harry mumbled. He could see the rest of them at the kitchen table, looking at him with a mixture of misty-eyed gratitude and pride, and felt a pang of guilt. "Talk to you later," he mumbled and went upstairs to finally reckon with Moody.

The heavy drapes had been opened in the formal front parlour and a watery sunlight trickled into the hallway, making it just possible to discern the faded patterns on the ancient carpet. Harry took a deep breath to steady his nerves. Moody just wanted the facts about the duel and as long as Harry kept his mind focused he could give the old Auror the facts without betraying his secret.

Moody looked up when Harry entered the room. He was sprawled in one of the armchairs with his real leg propped on an ottoman. "Thought you forgot," he grumbled. The coffeepot on the table at his elbow rose gracefully in the air to refill his cup, while the sugar tongs darted past the milk pitcher to drop in two cubes with a splash.

Harry sat on the sofa, intentionally placing himself where the pale sunlight would reflect off his glasses and make it more difficult for the old Auror to read his expression. He unapologetically wiped the moisture from his hands on the knees of his trousers, knowing that some anxiety was expected of him in this situation. "Where should I start?"

Scowling as a napkin wiped spilled coffee from the tray while the tongs and pitcher continued to jostle in what was apparently the latest instance in an old quarrel, Moody picked up his cup. "We were together as far as the foot of the stairs," he prompted.

Tonks and Moody had blasted open the front door, and Ron and Neville had gone in first to clear the immediate area. They'd come under fire from two rooms on the first floor and from the second floor landing, but then Shaklebolt's team emerged from the back hallway and put up a crossfire.

"We knew the library was on the second floor. and one of my objectives was to search there for the last Horcrux, or for clues to where it might be hidden. The Death Eater on the landing probably didn't see me because the smoke was already pretty thick. I _Stupified_ him, and threw his wand down to Padma. I went down the hall-"

"Who was your back-up?" Moody interrupted.

"I didn't wait for anyone, I just-"

"You know better than that, Potter," the old Auror snapped. "Good way to get yourself killed."

With a grimace to acknowledge the error, Harry went on with his story. "I checked all the rooms, but it didn't look as if anyone else was on that floor. The library was empty, too. It was starting to get smoky and I opened one of the windows for air. That's when the door burst open behind me-"

Moody stopped him again. "You shut the door behind you?"

Harry paused. "No, but there was a bang and…I assumed that's what must've happened. Now I wonder whether the sound I heard was him Apparating, or maybe it was something else, maybe even something from downstairs." He didn't need to specify who he meant by 'him'.

The old Auror nodded. "Go on. Did he say anything?"

"He just started in on me. I dodged his first spell, and the drapes started burning. I tried what you suggested, a lot of annoying little things to make him overconfident while I tried to work in close enough to grapple with him, but he deflected everything and kept his distance. One of the hexes hit the big mirror over the mantle, and glass sprayed everywhere, but he turned most of it into water, and kept hurling spells."

"He didn't use a Killing curse?"

"No," Harry answered after a moment.

"Why do you think that was?" Moody peered at him across the room.

"I don't…" _Can't think about that_.

"Could be he wanted you alive," the old Auror mused. "Could've made demands with you as a hostage. Or maybe he didn't want you to die painlessly. What did you get him with?"

Harry replied promptly. "Coruscating spell."

"How did it make you feel?"

"Sick," Harry told him truthfully.

Moody nodded sympathetically. "Nothing to be ashamed of, Potter. Every good person feels that way about causing someone to die. My advice is to stay out of the rest of the War. With You-Know-Who gone, Magical Law Enforcement will take over. It's only a matter of time until the Death Eaters-"

"Oh, dear! Am I too late?" inquired a high, thin voice.

Startled, they both looked up to see Elphias Doge framed in the doorway. With the comical profusion of white hair that stood up on his head like thistledown, the elderly wizard looked more like a representative of another species than the oldest living member of the Order of the Phoenix.

"I hurried over as soon as I heard the rumours that Voldemort had been defeated," he wheezed as he hobbled into the parlour, "I hurried over to hear the story first hand."

Harry exchanged a glance with Moody while Doge made himself at home in the other armchair. "Excuse me Mr. Doge, I know you were Dumbledore's partner and all, but I don't exactly feel comfortable talking about that sort of thing with a member of the Wizengamot."

Doge snapped his fingers and the pot next to Moody poured coffee into another cup, which vanished and reappeared on the low table next to the elderly wizard's chair. Pale eyes twinkling, he reached for the cup with a frail hand. "I see, my dear young man, that you've assimilated Albus's mistrust of the government. However, I can assure you that I will keep whatever you say in complete confidence."

Harry still didn't move. "Rufeous Scrimgeour doesn't exactly approve of the Order's activities."

"Scrimgeour," Doge said, wrinkling his nose as if the name were distasteful, "is merely the Minister of Magic. Politicians come and go, as you've surely noticed, and yet somehow the business of the Ministry proceeds, largely undisturbed by their passing. The Minister is but a spokesperson. The true power of the government lies elsewhere." He sipped his coffee delicately and allowed Harry to puzzle over that for a moment. "Alastor, would you be so kind as to permit me to speak a few words to Harry alone?"

Moody looked startled by the elderly wizard's request, but he nodded. "Suppose I should get some breakfast," he muttered transparently. He used his staff to climb heavily to his feet and exchanged a significant look with Doge before walking from the room. Harry heard the clumping of his wooden leg slowly fade as he went down to the kitchen.

Silence descended over the parlour. Harry's expression bordered on insolent as Doge sipped his coffee and looked about the room with feigned interest. There was no way in hell that Harry was going to speak first, and the clock on the mantle solemnly ticked away two and a half minutes before the elderly wizard spoke.

"I already know that a fire of unknown origin destroyed the Riddle mansion last night. Members of the Order were treated at St. Mungo's for injuries ranging from mild to grave. One of your classmates is dead, as is a highly respected Auror."

Harry managed not to flinch as the elderly wizard probed at his mind with piercing eyes. "I've spent most of my life fighting the most powerful Dark Lord in centuries, Mr. Doge," Harry grated. "I'm used to guarding my thoughts in order to protect my friends."

Doge blinked and the pressure against Harry's mind abruptly ceased. The elderly wizard set down his cup with trembling hands,. "Please forgive an old man his foolishness," he said, his high voice quavering. "I only wanted – I fought against him in two wars, I lost the person dearest to my heart! No bodies were recovered from the ashes of the mansion, and yet-"

Harry felt empathy for the elderly wizard but remained conscious of the fact that Doge had been Dumbledore's partner for decades, plenty of time to learn the subtle art of manipulation from a master. "The threat has been neutralized," he said warily, "but it may not be completely over."

Doge sat up attentively. "Could it be," he mused, "that something unanticipated occurred last night? A revelation, perhaps, that you believe might be unwise to make widely known or which requires a decision?"

Harry nodded. "Something like that," he allowed.

"Perchance you find yourself in need of advice," Doge wheezed. "It is not widely known, but there are situations of such gravity that even the Wizengamot, with all its combined wisdom, might falter in judgement. I have the honour to sit on a highly secretive committee, the members of which have been entrusted to take charge of such matters before they come to the attention of the Wizengamot and place them before the highest court of adjudication."

"Who sits on this high court?" Harry asked.

The elderly wizard's pale eyes grew intense. "Merlin the Mage."

Harry gave him a pitying look as he realised that the elderly wizard was mad. "Merlin's been dead for centuries," he said gently, as if explaining to a child. Perhaps, he thought, it wasn't too late for the healers at St. Mungo's to stop the progression of Doge's insanity. He wondered if he would be able to convince Doge to go with him quietly or if he should call for the others.

"Dead, but not gone," Doge replied, and something in his tone brought Harry's speculations to a halt. "Legend says that Merlin was forever imprisoned in the Crystal Cave. The reality is that the crystalline walls are uniquely suited to store thought patterns and Merlin left a portion of his knowledge and discernment within the cave. Furthermore, he decreed that those who were to follow in his footsteps, those who coaxed the secrets of magic from Nature and were gifted in discovering the truth, should likewise contribute a portion of their perception to the Crystal Cave. These are the recipients of the Order of Merlin. The committee upon which I serve was established to evaluate candidates, and to ensure the transfer of their essences to the Crystal Cave. Thus, Merlin's wisdom still guides our world." The elderly wizard slumped into his chair as if exhausted by his revelation.

"What about people like Peter Pettigrew?" Harry asked. "He was awarded an Order of Merlin."

Doge shook his head impatiently. "No, no! Only those who were awarded the Order, First Class."

Harry considered what Doge had said. He knew time was running out for him to impose conditions upon Voldemort as a consequence of their duel and felt completely inadequate to make such a decision himself. "How can I be sure that whatever I discuss with him – with Merlin - will remain a secret?"

The elderly wizard shrugged. "No one who seeks the wisdom of Merlin ever speaks of the experience except in oblique terms. It is not known whether the Mage's will is enforced by magic or through heartfelt obedience to his will. But consider well, young man, for his judgements are irrevocable and the punishments he decrees cannot be evaded."

The ticking of the clock on the mantle was the only sound in the room. Finally, Harry spoke. "How," he asked, "do I get to the Crystal Cave?"

Doge stood unsteadily and fumbled in a pocket of his robes. He withdrew a silver coin, and Harry walked over to take it from him. Inscribed upon the metal was the image of two dragons locked in combat. "This is a Portkey. It is activated by the words, 'Let Merlin judge.'"

Harry's fingers closed around the coin. "Thank you, Mr. Doge."

The elderly wizard's smile was kindly. "No, my dear young man – thank you."

Having decided on a course of action, Harry hurried up the stairs to the second floor. Merlin, he thought, was an authority they could both accept, revered by the Wizarding world as the greatest of their kind. He tried to recall what Professor Binns had taught them about the ancient wizard: that he had been a gifted seer even as a child, that he had practiced the Dark Arts but had also supported the reigns of just and tolerant rulers.

When he reached Orion Black's library, Harry stopped and looked up and down the hall before removing the spells he'd placed on the door. He turned the handle and slowly opened the door.

Just inside the doorway, as if he'd been expecting him, stood a man and Harry's breath caught at his appearance. He was an inch or so taller than Harry himself, with black wavy hair that grazed his collar. He had discarded the elegant robes he'd worn earlier and was now wearing a long jacket of old fashioned cut, in a dark green fabric. With his dark eyes and pale complexion he was, without a doubt, the handsomest person to whom Harry had ever been this close, and Harry felt something wrench apart deep inside his chest as he realised that the brief intimacy they had shared that morning was already lost forever.

Voldemort motioned him inside and, lifting a finger in a gesture of silence, nodded toward the window. Nagini was stretched up before it, her head hovering at nearly the height of Harry's shoulder. The great serpent was intently studying one side of the heavy drapes and her tongue flickered as she tasted for scents on the air.

Harry quietly shut the door behind him. His headache seemed on the verge of returning, and he suspected that the stress of the last day was probably to blame. Nagini rose a little higher, and he wondered for only a moment what could possibly have attracted her attention before she darted forward into the folds of heavy velvet. There was a high-pitched squeal that was suddenly cut off and, a moment later, the serpent emerged, swallowing with a satisfied expression.

"Doxiesss," she explained, descending to the floor in graceful coils.

"How did she get in here?" Harry wondered.

Voldemort chuckled. "Orion Black was known to collect fine brandies. I sent Dobby to the cellar for a bottle and mentioned that if he were to notice a large reptile prowling around, he should send her up as well."

Unexpectedly, his arm snaked around Harry's shoulder and drew him near. Harry sighed, his eyelids fluttering down in comfort as the Dark wizard's hand settled on the back of his neck. The pressure in his head faded, and he leaned forward to rest his cheek against the other man's shoulder.

"You're a surprising person, Harry," Voldemort quietly mused. "You killed me last night with single-minded determination, and yet today you are remarkably reluctant to finish the job. I admit to a certain curiosity about your intentions."

After a heartbeat, Harry murmured, "If you could kill me right now, would you?"

Warm breath tickled his ear. "At this moment, I believe my curiosity would win over the old desire to kill you." He added, "I'm definitely not the man I was yesterday."

Harry stepped away with reluctance. "I've made a decision."

The Dark wizard studied him closely and nodded. "By all means, then, let us proceed."

"I can't even pretend to know what to do in this situation, but I just learned that there is one person I would trust to decide for me. Will you accept the judgement of Merlin?" Harry's fingers tightened around the coin.

Voldemort frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Merlin's consciousness survives in the Crystal Cave." Harry held up the coin. "And I have a Portkey."

A smile slowly spread across the handsome face. "If Merlin still exists, I am quite anxious to meet him. Oh, don't look so sad, Harry. The knowledge that, no matter what happens, you'll be tormented for the rest of you life will be a great comfort to me."

"Fine," Harry snapped and reached for his hand. "Let Merlin judge!"

They were abruptly yanked through space, and dropped unceremoniously by the Portkey onto a rough and hard surface. Darkness blossomed around them as they came to a stumbling halt and cold, dank air brushed Harry's face. His grip tightened on the other wizard's hand.

Voldemort's bitter laughter echoed in the darkness, a chilling sound that Harry recalled from the Chamber of Secrets. "Harry, do you know what an oubliette is?"

"No," Harry admitted, rather unsteadily.

"It is a place to imprison those who are better left forgotten. I wonder: how well do you know the person who so conveniently provided you with this Portkey?"

**Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment!**


	5. Chapter 5

_"You know quite well, deep within you, that there is only a single magic, a single power, a single salvation…and that is love."_

-Hermann Hesse

**Author's Notes: **Nine months is a long time to write a chapter. I'll try not to take so long with the next one.

Now, to address all the comments to Chapter Four from readers who believed Tom's quip about the'oubliette'! While it was gratifying to know that readers have so thoroughly accepted the altered universe I've presented, the great (and might I say, unwarranted!) trust placed in the Dark Lord was overwhelming! For a time I almost considered taking the plotline in that direction instead of adhering to the story as planned…and then I thought of a certain published writer who altered her original story arc in response to readers' opinions, and how much I'd hated that as a reader...and I decided to stand my ground. But I do appreciate the degree to which readers have invested their imagination in this fic!

This story is basically canon compliant through Order of the Phoenix.

Thanks to my beta**, hobtheknife**.

This chapter is dedicated to **shaitanah,** for all the encouragement.

* * *

Voldemort had expected a sharp retort to his casual taunt, but instead a stunned silence ensued in which Harry let go of his hand. He sighed at his companion's credulity, while his eyes strained to discern any sort of detail in the darkness and his fingers automatically flexed for the wand that wasn't there.

Even in this predicament, he admitted to a peculiar sense of optimism. He hadn't been entirely convinced by Harry's declaration about Merlin, but he was certain that wherever the Portkey had brought them it wasn't some sort of inescapable prison simply because the Ministry had its own designs focused upon Harry Potter. Moreover, it seemed entirely within the realm of probability that the Wizengamot might maintain a secret committee to deal with extremely powerful rogue wizards; the mystery surrounding the fate of the previous Dark Lord suggested as much. He had troubled himself to discover that Grindlewald was in fact still alive, and therefore considered it likely that he would be permitted to live as well. And as long as he lived, there was still time to achieve his goals.

Harry stirred at his side and took deep breath. "But I _know_ Elphias Doge! He's in the Order! There's no reason -"

Voldemort recognised the launch of a tirade when he heard one. His patience with those who lost self-control was thin at the best of times and, under normal circumstances, he would have silenced his companion's outburst with a succinct curse. But…

…however much he would have preferred the situation to be otherwise, just now he needed Harry Potter.

He needed Harry's good opinion. Having defeated him in a duel, it was in the younger wizard's power at present to end or severely circumscribe his existence – and yet, he seemed remarkably reluctant to do so. Voldemort intended to exert his utmost charm to influence Harry's indecision in order to achieve a favourable decision from whoever passed judgment in this place. And, improbable as it seemed, the younger wizard was obviously fascinated with him.

He needed Harry's power. He could feel a resonation with the phoenix feather core of the younger wizard's wand that was twin to his own, and he suspected that, in dire need, he might be able to make use of it through his connection with Harry's mind.

And though he would not consciously admit it, he needed Harry's companionship. Even in this, one of the most perilous predicaments of his long life, Harry's presence evoked an improbable sense of comfort and confidence that he would emerge from this trial largely unscathed and with the prospect of fulfilling his great charge undeterred.

In the background, Harry's rant continued. " – can't imagine that anyone in the Ministry hates me that much - "

"Harry."

"Besides, there's no way anyone could know that you're still - "

"Harry!"

Voldemort reviewed his choices. Although he desperately felt like backhanding the younger man, he accepted the overriding need to maintain Harry's cooperation and good-will. He'd had evidence over the past few hours of the effect of his proximity on Harry's emotions; it was time to put what he had learned to good use.

" – entire Wizarding World, dammit! - "

Trying to project calm and reason, he reached out and squeezed the younger man's arm. "Harry, we need some light."

"What? Oh, here…_Lumos_!" A pool of pale light spilled from Harry's wand, reflecting in his glasses.

He permitted himself a smile, a bit surprised that a simple touch had achieved such a prompt result. "That's better. Now let's investigate our surroundings."

Harry held his wand up and finally lifted it high over his head, but the walls and ceiling were too distant to be illuminated. "This doesn't _look_ like a cell," he observed.

"Do you believe everything you're told?" Voldemort asked, perhaps more sharply than he should have. "Activating an unknown Portkey is a risky business." Harry appeared to be suitably chastened and so he continued. "At least your wand still works, so it might be possible to Apparate out of this place."

"He told me I could get advice," Harry defended himself. "He said that part of Merlin's mind is here, and that he could help me decide what to do."

The Dark Lord nodded, his countenance projecting a sympathetic understanding. "I see - you're conflicted about what sort of penalty to impose upon me. I believe most judges try to understand the reasons behind an act before deciding upon a course of action."

"You killed my parents and tried to kill me because the Prophecy said I would defeat you!" Harry was indignant. "You've killed who knows how many other people to try to make yourself immortal, and you led a bunch of terrorists who tried to overthrow the government! What else do I need to know?"

"You might begin," Voldemort suggested, "by asking what it means to be Dark Lord."

Harry fell silent and the older wizard waited patiently as his words took effect. "You're right," the younger man said finally. "I suppose that I should try to understand. How did you get to be Dark Lord?"

Voldemort's smile was at its most charming. "In my grandparent's generation, every Pure-blooded Wizarding child was taught these things at home. Now our world has grown so secular that few of your generation have even heard of the Prince."

"Do you mean Kassapraxites?" Harry blurted.

The Dark Lord raised an eyebrow. "I'm surprised you know of him."

"I don't, really," the younger wizard admitted. "Funny thing is that I never even heard of him until yesterday but now everyone I talk to seems to know all about him. I think… isn't he a god who was supposed to have taught people how to do magic?"

"There's much more to it than that." Voldemort began to walk and with a tug at Harry's arm the younger wizard fell into step next to him. "The cult of Kassapraxites stretches far into the distant past. And, like all organized religions, there is a priesthood to look after the needs of the faithful."

Harry was dubious. "Why haven't I ever heard about these priests? Why haven't I seen any Wizarding chapels?"

"All the old families used to maintain shrines in their homes," Voldemort told him. "I know one still remains at the Malfoy mansion. There used to be one at Hogwarts just off the Great Hall when I was a student though, like many of the rooms in the castle that are no longer used, the entrance may now be hidden. As for the priesthood, there have always been few willing to undertake the difficulties of travelling to a distant land and to undergo the rigorous training. I'm not certain anyone has taken the vows since…well, for a very long time."

"Are you a priest of Kassapraxites, then?" Harry asked. They had been walking long enough to cross a Quidditch pitch but there were still no walls to be seen.

Voldemort laughed. "Do I seem like an especially religious man to you? The chief priest of Kassapraxites," he continued, "is known as the Hierophant, who is also called the Lord or Lady of Light. It is the duty of the Hierophant to administrate the cult and to interpret the will of the Prince. Since the Hierophant may not leave the Citadel of the Prince, he appoints a temporal counterpart to implement the will of the Prince in the world outside." He paused.

"Oh." Harry belatedly realised that Voldemort was waiting for him to answer. "The person appointed by the Hierophant…is Dark Lord?"

"Or Dark Lady. Full points, Harry."

"And this person gets special training in Dark magic?"

"No. The appellation 'Dark' is given because their duty lies among those who dwell in the figurative darkness that lays outside the Prince's Citadel, in contrast to those who live inside and who enjoy the metaphoric light of His presence." He was aware that his voice had taken on a cynical tone as he remembered the pompous prelates he had encountered.

"You were really there?" The younger wizard was obviously intrigued. "In the Prince's Citadel?"

Voldemort recalled the arduous journey through forested wilderness, the winding trail through treacherous foothills and the blizzards that roared out of the mountains. "It wasn't an adventure I'd care to repeat..."

_The tent flap was flung wide ands sunlight briefly flooded the opening as Abraxas stooped to scuttle inside. "D'you know what day it is?" he asked brightly. His grey eyes twinkled beneath the brim of his hat as he pocketed his precious chronometer and Voldemort grimaced to see frost had already settled in his companion's beard._

"_It's not your birthday, nor yet mine," Voldemort answered shortly. He reduced their chaste bedrolls to the size of his hand with a flick of his wand and stuffed them inside a coat pocket._

"_It's the year's first session of the Wizangamot." Abraxas gulped down some hot tea and began devouring strips of dried meat he pulled from a bag._

"_While having to miss this momentous occasion must be a cause of great disappointment to you, I'm sorry to say that it completely slipped my mind. If we manage to get through the pass today, however, you'll have an even greater accomplishment with which to console yourself." There was no need to mention the need for haste brought on by delays from the weather and the hindrance of waiting until Abraxas could walk again after spraining an ankle._

"_Fucking ghouls were prowling outside the wards last night," Abraxas observed, chewing._

_Voldemort found a handful of nuts and dried fruit and ate while he peered outside the tent. The snow around the wards was churned with tracks. "I doubt very much they were actually fucking," he muttered, knowing he'd lost the battle long ago to improve the aristocratic Malfoy's language. "In fact, it appears they were dispersed by the arrival of one of the snow apes." He squinted at a vanishing trail of enormous, human-like footprints interspersed with splashes of rust-coloured ichor._

_There was a clatter as Abraxas began putting away the cooking kit. "I wonder if we'll be able to see the Citadel from the top of the pass."_

"_If the weather holds and we get there before sundown." He bit back "…and if the place even exists."_

_It was in fact the next afternoon before they looked down upon the plateau to view far below human habitations clustered around tracts of cultivated farmland. A road followed alongside a broad, swift river and though neither spoke of it they were both greatly relieved to see that it led to a walled city of gleaming roofs and towering spires…_

"Though I admit," the Dark Lord concluded, "the experience was not without its rewards."

"I'd love to see it someday," Harry said, his voice so full of longing that Voldemort realized he'd glimpsed part of the memory. After a moment, the younger wizard asked, "What did the Hierophant tell you? What _is_ the will of the Prince?"

"To restore the rule of Wizarding kind throughout the world. It is an undertaking which well suited my own inclination…but it has proven more difficult to achieve than I anticipated."

"When you came back, you applied for the open teaching position at Hogwarts," Harry surmised. "But Dumbledore turned you down. Did he know then that you were Dark Lord? Did he even know what that meant?"

"I don't think it would have mattered if he had known," Voldemort mused. He peered ahead, just beyond the light spilling from Harry's wand, but the cavern was evidently enormous. "It seems that his family was indifferent to the old ways. At any rate, probably based on his experiences of Grindlewald's attempt to fulfil the Prince's will, he set himself against me as well."

"You were recruiting his students."

"And he was enlisting others among his students to the Order. Which brings us to the matter of the Prophecy." Voldemort knew that he must continue with special care. His previous encounters with the younger wizard had been a series of revelations. In the cemetery at Little Hangleton, he had stumbled upon the peculiar kinship their wands shared. At the Ministry of Magic, he had discovered a disturbing affinity within Harry's mind that was almost a mirror image of his own soul. And during the time he had spent in Harry's company at the Black mansion, he had tested his working hypothesis and was now convinced that his theory was correct. It was necessary, however, to present his case so as to elicit Harry's trust while managing to avoid disturbing his sense of identity.

"My parents defied you three times. " Harry knew the Prophecy by heart. "Snape told you that a baby born at the end of July would have the power to defeat you. It could have been either the Longbottoms or my parents and you chose us. You killed my Dad, and my Mum sacrificed herself to protect me."

Voldemort gave consideration to steering the conversation in the most beneficial direction. "You know that I offered your mother a chance to live-"

"But you didn't mean it," Harry interrupted. He stopped in his tracks, lowering his wand a fraction. "You couldn't have."

"Oh, but I did. There was one in my service who cared about her very much and asked me to spare her. I was willing to do so as a reward for his loyalty."

Harry digested this information. "You don't mean…But she…Oh, Merlin," he groaned. "Not _him_!"

The Dark wizard grasped the wrist of Harry's free hand and took note of the younger man's racing pulse. "Severus had a schoolboy crush on her, one which he steadfastly maintained even though the other Death Eaters discouraged his fascination. He was her first friend in the Wizarding world. In fact, Severus was the one who revealed to her that she was a witch."

"That's…That's disgusting," Harry muttered. He looked around, apparently distracting himself from assimilating this unwelcome revelation. "This place is so big we could probably walk for hours without ever finding Merlin – if he's even here."

Voldemort turned from the light of the younger wizard's wand, senses reaching out into the murky darkness. "Someone is here," he said very quietly. "There's a strong magical presence and if he's not aware of us yet, he will be presently."

"Then why don't we just wait for him to make an appearance?"

"Because that's not the way either of us prefers to do things, is it Harry?"

Harry not only smiled at him, he turned his wrist to clasp his hand. "Yeah, it's always a good idea to find out as much as possible when you're in a risky situation."

The Dark Lord glanced away to hide a smile, and continued as they began to walk once more. "I pondered what must have transpired when the Killing curse rebounded and left me in a disembodied state, and I naturally suspected Severus because he had both motive and opportunity to be complicit in the events that transpired that night."

"You think that he and my Mum had been working together? That they discovered some way to…to shatter your soul?"

"Not just _my_ soul, Harry. I believe your ability to access my thoughts is proof that they caused _your_ soul to split as well."

"No." Harry shook his head in disbelief. "That can't be true!"

"Do you think the likenesses between us are mere coincidence?"

"Yes! If you go back far enough, all the Wizarding families are related!" Harry tried to pull away but the older wizard's grip on his hand was firm. "Our thoughts are connected because you used my blood in the ritual that brought you back!"

"I thought so, too, until last night. Any benefit derived from sharing your blood should have ended when my body regenerated."

Harry tried to digest this information. "But why?" he finally managed. "I thought everyone believed in the Prophecy."

"Severus was never inclined toward mysticism," Voldemort mused. "Perhaps the two of them studied the wording of the divination and tried to come up with a plan that would fulfil the seer's prediction while evading the death of the people they wished to save."

"Mr. Olivander said my Mum's wand was good for charm work and I heard she was clever enough to be in Professor Slughorn's club," Harry recalled. "But if it was nearly impossible for _you_ to learn anything about Horcruxes when you were in school, how would _she_ have learned about them?"

The older wizard shrugged. "I can only speculate as to how they might have managed it, but the making of a Horcrux is a very technical business, one that is unlikely to occur inadvertently. The fact is that I recognised a portion of my soul inside you when I entered your mind that night in the Ministry, and I assure you that putting it there was not _my_ doing."

"Dumbledore told me that I had been protected by my mother's sacrifice," Harry's voice was bitter. "That the power you didn't know about was her love. But if she had been plotting with…with one of your most trusted Death Eaters and she kept what they were doing from the Order, from my father…" He swore under his breath. "Then the Prophecy caused them both to betray their friends!"

The younger man's anguish was so palpable that Voldemort felt a twinge of what almost…_almost_… might have been pity, but he rationalised it as a need to maintain control of the situation. Almost without conscious thought, he put his arm around Harry's shoulders. "Your mother was a courageous woman who risked everything to protect her family."

"Right," Harry growled. "Go ahead and point out her Slytherin traits. You're trying to act cooperative because I defeated you last night."

The younger man's tone evoked a pleasurable sensation somewhere deep inside, and a smile twitched the corner of the Dark wizard's mouth. "Permit me to remind you that it was _you_ who broke into _my_ house and attacked _me_."

"Don't pretend to be innocent! You've been trying to kill me since I was a baby!"

"Once at Godric's Hollow when you were an infant and then immediately after Wormtail's ritual in the cemetery. That makes two attempts by my count, which hardly amounts to a lifetime of murderous attacks upon your person."

Harry suddenly stopped and looked about. "Is it getting brighter in here, or am I imagining things?"

The gloom definitely seemed fainter in patches around them, while from above the effect was of heavy clouds parting after a storm to permit the pale light of distant stars to shine through. The light gradually increased until it seemed they were surrounded by tall, square arches looking over a murky, midnight world. The darkness resolved into heavy lintels and enormous stone walls.

"This looks familiar," Harry whispered, standing close at his side.

With a twinge of recognition, Voldemort knew that he had been here before – or a place very much like it. An ancient temple on a windswept plain… there had been many of them over the years, places with lost names and built by forgotten civilizations. "Stonehenge," he said at last.

"What's it doing in here?"

"It has been called Merlin's Observatory." They slowly walked around the stone-framed portals, glancing through the openings although there was little to be seen outside. The ceiling above had taken on the appearance of a clear night sky and familiar constellations could be discerned: the Enchantress, the Hunter, the Snake-handler.

In his present state of mind, the regular spacing of the megaliths resembled nothing so much as the bars of a prison and Voldemort suddenly chuckled. "It's a cage, Harry! Merlin was said to prophesy from a place he called his esplumoir, or moulting-cage. This is the place wherein he was imprisoned after being defeated by Nimue!"

Harry stepped toward one of the openings between the upright stones and reached out a hand. The night sky and dark countryside wavered and rippled beneath his touch. He rubbed his hand on his trouser leg and turned with a grimace. "It's the wall of the cave, all right. Cold and damp."

Voldemort froze at a sudden a hiss and sizzle from behind them, a noise that uncannily sounded like the kindling of a fire. Harry had heard it, too, and they turned warily around.

A low light bloomed in the centre of the illusory stone circle and a deep voice echoed around the chamber. "I am Merlin! Approach and hear my judgement!"

Harry shifted his grip on his wand to a guard position and glanced questioningly at the Dark Lord. Voldemort nodded and together they walked toward the apparition.

The shimmering shape of a man appeared before them. At first it seemed that he was standing near a fire because the illumination wavered and flickered. And then with a jolt Voldemort saw that it was the man that was sputtering and shimmering before them in a way that no three-dimensional being could do.

The figure appeared to be garbed in black Wizarding robes, and seemed of average height, but nothing else about it could be easily described. The face and hair were in constant change, a disconcerting collage of endlessly changing elements. Brown eyes regarded them from beneath golden lashes and delicately arched brows, then suddenly the lids became heavy and drooping as the nose varied more quickly from large and lumpy to long and thin to upturned and short, while at the same time the lips were changing from thin and disapproving to rosy and full, and the hair was by turns long and grey or curling and blond.

Anger curled in his stomach as he realised that the whole thing was-

"This is a joke!" Harry growled at his side. "That's not Merlin! It's some sort of holograph!"

"Harry, what exactly did your friend from the Wizengamot tell you?" Voldemort asked. He began a slow circuit of the apparition and wasn't surprised that somehow it managed to keep its face always toward him although the thing didn't actually seem to turn.

Harry impatiently shook his unruly hair from his eyes. "He told me that Merlin had left part of his wisdom here, and that everyone who had been awarded the Order of Merlin First Class had contributed some of their essences to help guide the Wizarding world."

Voldemort shook his head in irritation. "Haven't you noticed how few things in the Wizarding World are ever what you expect them to be? First they tell you that you're a wizard and magic is in your nature, and then they tell you that you can't use magic outside the school. So you go along to Hogwarts expecting to learn all sorts of magic, but they always seem to stop short of teaching you really useful sorts of spells. When you try to find out more on your own, all the interesting library books are in the Restricted Section, and so you save your money to spend at Flourish and Blott's, but their inventory consists largely of magical cookbooks and gossipy biographies of popular witches. No institutions of higher learning exist to allow you to pursue your interests, the Ministry of Magic would prefer for the populace to use magic for household chores rather than to push the boundaries of knowledge, and Wizarding families pay more attention to Quidditch standings than to the proceedings of the Wizengamot!" He halted, chagrined to have launched into a rant about the failings of Wizarding society when he stood on the brink of destruction. With a deep breath, he returned to analysing the threat level presented by shifting appearance of the man-like shape before them. "I wonder," he said, his voice almost wistful, "if anything at all even remains of the great Merlin?"

The eyes of the apparition suddenly turned a startling blue and regarded him directly from behind half-moon shaped spectacles. "The question is rather: how much still remains of Tom Riddle?"

The Dark Lord took a wary step backward and began to focus his mind on the sympathetic core of Harry's wand but before he could act a blast of power erupted from the apparition. The sudden assault effortlessly swept away his mental defences and ruthlessly probed his memories in an onslaught so ferocious that it was an effort merely to retain his identity.

It was over in seconds, leaving him glaring in fury but still standing. He heard a muttered expletive and noticed Harry climbing to his feet.

"I have reviewed the case against Tom Riddle," the apparition announced.

"_What_?" The indignant squawk was Harry's.

"You have been found guilty of the murders of James and Lily Potter. Mr. Potter, as victor in your recent duel with Mr. Riddle, you have the right to offer your opinion before I pronounce sentence."

"I didn't bring him here for you to put him on trial!" Harry snapped. "I know what he's done! I only wanted was some advice to help me decide what to do with him!"

"The Crystal Cave exists to prevent wild magic from destroying the Wizarding world as it presently exists," the apparition recited. "Tom Riddle's indiscriminate use of Dark magic presents a threat to the Wizengamot that must be contained."

Harry fought to regain his temper. "Look, you can't do anything to him without my permission. I need you to answer a few questions."

"It is within my power to grant your request," the apparition acknowledged.

Harry shot a worried look at Voldemort. "Yes, well what I want to know is - "

His question was cut short by a bright flash and the figure froze, features blurred in mid-transformation. The light it cast quickly dimmed and the hovering apparition faded to transparency.

"I must apologise," said a childlike voice close at hand. "I don't often receive visitors and I'm afraid that I sleep too much."

The being who stepped into view bore the guise of a young boy but it was obvious to the Dark Lord that this was the source of the power he'd sensed earlier. "Lord Merlin," Voldemort guessed.

The boy smiled and inclined his head. "Lord Voldemort." The most respected wizard in history seemed at first glance to be wrapped in a blanket, but the gleam of an ornately enamelled circle of gold at one shoulder indicated that he was wearing an oversized cloak in an antique style. A slim, golden circlet held his straight, dark hair, and he carried a tall staff that crackled with magical energy. "I know you both must have many things to ask but time is of the essence. We can discuss matters as we walk." He tapped his staff on the ground and a pale, steady glow spread around them. He turned, indicating they should accompany him, and Harry extinguished his wand.

"Can he really be Merlin?" Harry whispered to Voldemort.

"You see me in defeat," Merlin replied, having overhead the question. "She who vanquished and imprisoned me wished to prolong my existence. The spell she cast reversed the aging process so that each morning I grew a day younger, until at last I reached the age at which my powers first manifested. At that point, I began to grow older once again. Thus over the centuries, my semblance has varied from a lad of tender years to that of an ancient man."

Merlin continued leading them in silence and after long minutes finally stopped and looked back. The pale glow of the apparition could no longer be seen across the cave. "This is far enough for now," he decided. "Now, young Harry, you recently overcame the Dark Lord in battle and yet you permitted him to live. How do you explain your act of mercy?"

Harry flinched under the scrutiny of the boy's gaze. "It wasn't mercy," he answered. "It was an act of cowardice. I'm afraid if he dies, I'll die, too!"

"Self-preservation is a Slytherin trait," Voldemort mocked. "And I thought you such a noble little lion."

"I felt what you were going through last night," Harry said slowly. "I thought then that it was because of the blood Wormtail took from me to bring you back. But if I have a piece of your soul and you have part of mine, doesn't it mean if one of us dies the other will die, too?"

Merlin interjected, "If you do not wish Lord Voldemort's death, what sort of penalty will you accept?"

"I don't want him to be able to hurt anyone else ever again," Harry answered without hesitation.

"Yes, well, 'ever' is an extremely long time, young man," Merlin commented dryly. "Though, as it happens, I, too, prefer that he remain alive."

Voldemort felt a chill that had nothing to do with the dampness of the cave, a thrill of hope combined with a presentiment of imminent danger.

"I was known as a seer in the days before my present plight," the boy told them, "and even in this place, the future is made known to me. I have foreseen that Wizarding Britain will soon face a great peril, one that only the two of you together can overcome. Are you both willing to undertake this task?"

Harry nodded, awed.

"Yes, of course," Voldemort assented impatiently.

Merlin lifted his staff and Voldemort felt the flow of unseen magic. "This is my judgement: you will be bound to the house of your ancestors, unrecognised by all who once knew you and unable to wield the magic to which you are heir. Thus will you will exist, bereft of both name and power, until you have fulfilled your vow to defeat this threat."

An uncanny wind began to blow through the cave. "But what about Harry?" Voldemort demanded.

"Me?" Harry yelped. "What about me?"

"Merlin, I can't complete this task alone! Harry must be bound-"

"Farewell, Dark Lord!" Merlin called. "We will meet again when you have accomplished your mission."

"Wait!" Voldemort struggled as the magical wind caught him up and threw Harry against him.

"Ouch!" Harry complained.

"Use your wand, you idiot!" Voldemort shouted.

"What did you say? I can't-"

The wind spun them around until they were dizzy and whisked them into the air with a lurch. Although they were surrounded by darkness and a rushing tumult, Voldemort sensed that they were being carried over a tremendous distance.

For the first time since he had awoken at Harry's side, the Dark Lord felt his confidence shaken. Being forced to live without magic was bad enough, incarceration and anonymity were without doubt bitter conditions, but having to depend on Harry to help him save Wizarding Britain from some indeterminate catastrophe was all but confirmation that this wasn't intended to be a temporary situation. He suspected that he was meant to be incarcerated for the rest of his life.

Quite suddenly the wind abated and they dropped precipitously. Harry flailed and drew his wand. He executed a shoddy swish-and-flick and hoarsely cried, _"Wingardium leviosa!_"

Their descent slowed with a jolt that left them hovering breathlessly just above a forest of treetops. The green canopy stretched to the limit of vision. Voldemort knew there were few woodlands of this size left in Britain and filed away the information to use later in determining where he'd been sent.

"_Mobilius,_" Harry gasped and they began to float gently down between the leafy boughs. A minute passed, and the branches gave way to reveal a large stone and timber house in a clearing. The Dark Lord tried and failed to place any of his ancestors in a location such as this. The house had a timeless quality and might have been three hundred years old or more than seven.

They glided alongside the trunk of a mighty tree. Voldemort reached out and touched the familiar-looking bark and sensed its silent strength: it was a yew. They dropped lightly into the fenced front yard and Harry might have fallen, but Voldemort still had his arms wrapped around the younger man's waist. "Erm," Harry began, a bit embarrassed.

"Listen to me, Harry," Voldemort hissed, pulling him closer. "You did not take an Unbreakable Vow, but it is nonetheless incumbent upon you to fulfil your promise to Merlin. Do you understand? You do not have a choice in this matter!"

"I – yes, I understand. D'you think that - "

There was a painful screech from the direction of the house, and whatever Harry had been about to say was forgotten.

"Come in, your lordship! Come in and be welcome!"

Standing on the front porch of the house was a creature as fantastic as either of them had ever encountered. It appeared to be female, but it definitely wasn't human. The creature stood nearly as tall as the two wizards, sturdily built with broad shoulders and a thick neck. Its head was larger than any human's, the ears were pointed and the nose was flat. Ferocious tusks jutted from the mouth, which gaped in a smile that intimidated more than it reassured. Even more incongruously, she was wearing an old-fashioned rose-coloured dress that reached to the ground and was covered with a spotless white apron.

The front door screeched again as she opened it and beckoned to them with what was probably meant as a gesture of welcome. "There's just time to refresh yourselves before supper!"

Voldemort felt as if he was being shown the door to his prison cell. At his side, Harry winced. "Stop that," he grumbled. "You're making my head hurt. You're lucky, you know. It looks like a nice place and besides, this isn't going to last forever."

Voldemort's self-control was very near the limit. "No, Harry," he snapped, "You're the one who's lucky! Do you know why you were able to defeat me last night?"

"No." Wary of the Dark Lord's anger, Harry took a step backward.

"Because one of your valiant friends took it upon himself to attack Nagini!"

The younger wizard grew sombre. "Yeah, I knew it must be...Well, obviously, I could tell you weren't focused on me…" He groaned as he finally understood. "You killed Neville from two floors away because he attacked her…"

"She can't defend herself against magic."

"I'll take care of her, I'll bring her back tomorrow - " Harry was disturbed to find himself babbling and pushed his hair out of his eyes. "Look, I need to get back, they're going to be wondering…"

They looked at each other awkwardly.

Harry reached out and squeezed the older wizard's shoulder. "I promise to come back tomorrow."

Voldemort's expression was bleak.

"Tomorrow," Harry repeated, and he was gone.

Voldemort looked toward the front of the house where the strange creature waited. He sighed heavily. Since there was no going back, he went forward to meet her.

**Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment!**


	6. Chapter 6

_You know quite well, deep within you, that there is only a single magic, a single power, a single salvation_

_…and that is love."_

-Hermann Hesse

**Author's Notes:** Merlin, I just realized that this chapter is _incredibly_ long! The length, in fact, suggests that my writing speed is about 1000 words per month, but the truth is that I'm a bit tired of this story. The outline is complete, and _I_ know what happens, so creatively I'm ready to move on and begin writing original fiction. If you, dear readers, wish to see this tale finished, please let me know. I need encouragement to motivate me to continue. If you have commented in the past, thank you once again – this chapter was written and posted because of you. If you haven't left a comment before and you're enjoying this enough to want to read more, I want to hear from you. And if anyone is interested enough in seeing this finished as to sign on as my writing coach and keep motivating me to finish this, please pm me.

This story is basically canon compliant through Order of the Phoenix.

As always, heartfelt thanks to my beta**, hobtheknife**, who doesn't really like slash, but does like my writing enough to read this through in spite of the M/M relationships.

* * *

It was night by the time Harry returned to Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, and the house was quiet. "Dobby!" he called from the top of the basement stairs. "I'm home!"

The house elf appeared with startling alacrity, a frown of concern creasing his face. "You worried us all, Harry, sir!" he scolded. "People has been waiting all day to see you! Owls has been bringing messages!" He snapped his fingers, and a laundry basket appeared, filled with scrolls.

"I'm sorry, Dobby. I should have told you I was going out, but something came up and I had to leave." Harry dutifully poked through the rolls of parchment. "Is anything in here actually important?"

Dobby instantly retrieved a scroll that was embossed with seal of the Ministry of Magic. "The owl that brought this one didn't want to leave until you read it." He looked a bit embarrassed. "Dobby has Hedwig chase it away."

Harry opened it and found a VIP guest badge folded in a sheet of parchment which read:

_Mr. Potter,_

_Please present yourself at my office tomorrow at 8:00 a.m. for a brief  
meeting._

_Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister for Magic_

"Great bloody hell," Harry muttered, crumpling the parchment and stuffing the badge in a pocket. Another difficult discussion with the Minister wasn't high on his list of priorities just now. "Dobby, this is really important: make sure I get up by seven tomorrow morning. Scrimgeour wants to see me and, whatever it's about, I'd better not be late." He picked up the basket and headed for the stairs to the kitchen. "I'm starving! Did you go shopping?"

"Yes, and then Dobby bakes cookies for you to take to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries."

Harry stopped so suddenly at the bottom of the steps that the elf almost ran into him. How had he forgotten that his friends were in the hospital? "Have you heard anything?" he asked with sudden anxiety.

"Miss Hermione Granger is sitting up in her bed, and wants to go home. Professor Lupin is wearing so many bandages that Mr. George Wheezy says he looks like the mother of an ancient Egyptian. It is a joke," he informed Harry, "though Dobby does not understand it. But they says Mr. Ron Wheezy still cannot see. And Harry, sir…" The elf blinked as his comically large eyes filled with tears. "There will be funerals."

Guilt twisted Harry's stomach. _What kind of person am I?_ he wondered. _People risked their lives for me. People got hurt. People died! And I – I protected him! I must be mad!_ He gazed blankly at 'Still Life with Lemons'. "I need to go visit them tonight," he said finally.

"First, Dobby will fix you something to eat, Harry, sir." A few items flew out of the refrigerator while the house-elf busied himself at the cutting board.

Harry stopped in the centre of the kitchen and stared. The countertops were covered with plates filled with cookies. There were sugar cookies and macaroons, chocolate cookies covered with brightly-coloured icing, cookies topped with puddles of jelly and cookies full of fruit and nuts. It was an incredible sight. "That's a lot of cookies," he observed.

"Yes, sir! Dobby was worried when Harry Potter disappeared and all day long he hears about friends who was hurt. Dobby is wanting to help but cannot think how, and then Mr. Fred Wheezy says hospitals has no treats. And Dobby did not know what they might like, so he made all kinds!"

"That was really nice of you. Hey, why don't you come with me to St. Mungo's? You can deliver these in person."

The elf's face brightened. "Dobby will pack them all up while you eat, Harry, sir!" A few small boxes appeared, and he began to arrange an assortment of cookies in each one.

Harry poured himself a glass of milk and devoured two sandwiches, watching as Dobby filled a dozen boxes. Curiosity eventually got the better of him. He cleared his throat. "I was just wondering…I mean, we know just four people at 's right now. Who are all the other cookies for?"

The elf blinked in surprise, suddenly seeing the untouched plates still piled high with cookies. "Do you think Dobby has baked too many?" he asked in a shocked voice.

Harry tried not to laugh at his plaintive expression. "Y'know, there's probably lots of people at St. Mungo's who would love a treat like this. I bet even the Healers would appreciate them."

Dobby looked relieved at the suggestion. "Good idea, Harry, sir! You is always thinking of others!"

No, that's the problem, Harry thought morosely. I should be spending more time thinking about the people who really matter…and less thinking about the one who caused all of this in the first place. He stood, and took his empty plate and glass to the sink. "Get some more boxes and I'll help you pack up the rest."

The witch at the desk marked Inquiries looked at them with wide eyes as Harry introduced himself and Dobby. She became even more flustered when he explained that they'd brought approximately eighty dozen cookies for the patients and staff. "Gracious me, I'll have to check with the Dietary Department – and page the Healer-In-Charge – and send word to the different wards-"

Dobby helpfully stayed behind to provide details of the ingredients to the staff, who voiced concerns about patient allergies even as they sampled the different varieties. He was positively basking in the attention, and Harry was pleased to see him being treated as someone of importance.

Hermione was reading when he peered in the open door of her room. "Hi," he said, looking around for other visitors. "Where is everyone?"

"Harry!" She looked up, dropping the book on the blankets. "Where have you been? I've been so worried!"

The angry bruises on her face were a shock and, assailed by another wave of guilt, he hurried over to hug her. "I'm okay. How are you doing?"

"Oh, I'm fine. I know all of this looks terrible," she indicated her face and her swollen, purple hands, "but the bones have healed and the soft tissue damage is superficial. I'm going home tomorrow. How about you? What happened last night after you left the mansion?"

"I – Nagini said something that made me wonder if there was another Horcrux that we hadn't suspected," he hastily improvised. "Turned out to be the Locket of Slytherin, but it was charred and empty."

Hermione's gaze was piercing. "You're certain there wasn't anything else?"

He shrugged. "I probably misunderstood her – neither of us was very coherent just then." He looked around for a distraction, and saw planters and vases of flowers clustered on a table. "Nice roses," he remarked. "Who brought them?"

"There was lots of excitement here today and you missed it all," she said reprovingly.

"What happened?" he asked with foreboding. 'Excitement' might mean anything from Molly Weasley having fainted to an attack on the hospital by Death Eaters.

"For one thing, a team of Aurors showed up." Her tone indicated that their visit hadn't been of a social nature.

Harry was indignant. "What were they doing here?"

"They mostly seemed interested in what happened to Kingsley. Ron overheard them talking to Remus, so we had time to agree on a story."

"Which was?"

"We told them we went with you to the Riddle house to look for a magical artefact you suspected He Who – I mean Lord Voldemort – may have left behind, and that Arthur insisted on going along, and brought friends in case the Death Eaters were lurking about. The Aurors seemed satisfied with that much."

"They might not have been all that satisfied," he told her gloomily. "Rufus Scrimgeour wants to see me first thing tomorrow morning. What else happened?"

She immediately brightened. "Cormac came to visit me this afternoon."

"That arrogant git? But you broke up with him!"

"Apparently he's been carrying a torch for me all this time," she remarked, smiling. "He found out I'd been admitted and he brought those-" she indicated the arrangement of red roses, "- and a rather expensive-looking necklace, which I couldn't accept, of course."

Harry snorted. "Bit too much."

"But this is the really amazing part: He said that he's always regretted not being more persistent and that he still loves me - and then he asked me to marry him!"

She was positively glowing from the memory, and it occurred to Harry that she had found McLaggen's proposal flattering even though she was engaged to Krum. "I never suspected that big lout had an even an ounce of romantic feeling in him. What did you tell him?"

"I felt sorry for him because he seemed so sincere, poor thing, and I had just started to explain that I'm already engaged when Viktor came back after taking my parents home!"

He couldn't suppress a grin, imagining Viktor interrupting one of his professional Quidditch rivals in the act of confessing his love to the woman who was already his fiancée. "That must've been priceless!"

"Viktor stood in the doorway and said, 'Vat is going on here?'" Harry couldn't suppress a snicker at her imitation of Krum's accent. "Cormac jumped and turned three shades of white. They were civil to one another and after Cormac left, I told Viktor everything that had happened. 'Ve're going to announce our engagement to the papers when you are vell. I don't vant anymore of your old boyfriends to try to steal you back!' And speaking of boyfriends…"

Harry looked at her blankly. "What?"

She raised her eyebrows. "Mad-Eye said someone spent the night with you."

"Merlin, who else did he tell?" Harry groaned. "Can't I have any privacy at all?"

"Probably not," she said, growing suddenly serious. "Especially not after the press gets the story that Voldemort's dead - and I assume that will happen tomorrow after you see Scrimgeour. So, do you have a new boyfriend?"

"No," he said vehemently and just then, something else occurred to him. "Speaking of figments of the imagination, did you ever read about a god of magic called Kassapraxites?"

Hermione thought for a moment, then shook her head. "The name sounds vaguely Greek, or maybe Persian. Where did you - ?"

"I thought I heard your voice!" Ron rushed in and abruptly halted in the middle of the room, his eyes scanning around uncertainly.

"He still can't see," Hermione mouthed to Harry in explanation.

Harry felt a lump in his stomach. "About time you noticed I'm here!" he said with false cheer. "When I came up, your room was packed with Weasleys. I thought I'd better wait until the rush was over to see you." He hurried over to Ron's side and steered him over to Hermione's bedside.

"Where the hell have you been?" Ron complained. "Out celebrating at the pub, or what?"

"I'm saving that until you're both out of here," Harry said quickly. "When are you getting out?"

"Probably not for another day or so," Ron said glumly. "They've summoned a specialist from Edinburgh."

"The Healers here haven't been able to determine whether the problem with his vision is due to the head injury or if there was a specific blindness curse used," Hermione explained.

Just then, one of the Assistant Healers appeared pushing a cart. "Cookies and pumpkin juice, anyone?"

"We should get Remus?" Harry said belatedly. "We can make it a party."

"'Fraid not." Hermione shook her head.

"Moon's full tonight," Ron elaborated. "They gave him his Wolfsbane potion and locked him in for the night."

The Assistant permitted them to select a few cookies, and left them with three inadequately small glasses of juice. Ron sat awkwardly on Hermione's bed, trying to balance his cookies and glass while Harry, as the only fully ambulatory person present, pulled up a chair.

"You did it, mate," Ron commended him. "It's finally over."

"Somehow I always imagined something grander than this," Hermione said, her smile tired. "A party in the Great Hall, fireworks…"

"I couldn't have done it alone," Harry told them. "Thanks for sticking with me. You two are the best friends-" He blinked at them, unable to continue, his guilty secret choking back the words.

Ron raised his glass to cover the awkward silence. "To friendship!"

Harry jumped up and the three of them clinked their glasses, sloshing pumpkin juice. "To friendship!"

The Assistant Healer reappeared in the doorway. "I'm so sorry! I forgot to leave you a pitcher of juice!"

The trio made a brave attempt at celebration. Sharing juice and cookies late at night was almost like old times in the Gryffindor Common Room, and their conversation became more cheerful as they talked well beyond the end of regular visiting hours.

Around eleven o'clock, an Apprentice Healer tactfully reminded them that the patients needed their rest, and Harry gratefully allowed Dobby to take him home. The elf was particularly buoyant, chattering about having been invited to join the Friends of St. Mungo's, so as to participate in their weekly bake sales to benefit the hospital's Children's Services.

Harry was so tired when he finally climbed the stairs and opened the door to his bedroom that he didn't hear the telltale sounds of a massive body hurtling toward him, and was swatted to the floor before he knew what happened.

"Where isss he?" Nagini demanded. "If he isss dead, I will kill and eat you!"

"Wait – stop - he's fine!" Harry gasped, belatedly remembering that she'd been waiting all day for her Master to return. He struggled to draw his wand, but he could barely move with her heavy coils pinning him down.

"It isss my duty to be with him."

He didn't know much about their relationship, but thought this was a peculiar way to describe whatever sort of arrangement they had. "I have to go somewhere in the morning, but I promised to bring you to him tomorrow afternoon."

Her flickering tongue was the only response for long seconds. "That will be accssseptable," she decided at last. She shifted her weight enough that Harry was able to scramble to his feet and turn on the light. By the time he turned around, she was settling her coils in the middle of his bed.

"Erm…If you don't mind, I'd like to go to sleep," he hinted.

Nagini eyed him balefully.

"Fine!" He stomped into the bathroom, grabbed his toothbrush and headed to the bathroom across the hall.

It was only after he'd showered, that he realised he hadn't grabbed any clean clothes or pyjamas. He was too drained to deal with Nagini again and besides, he thought defensively, it was his house and no one else was spending the night. He padded naked down the hall to one of the bedrooms that was always kept prepared for guests and, crawled between cool, crisp sheets.

As exhausted as he was, though, he just couldn't sleep. He kept thinking about Ron and Hermione, and the enormity of his deceit weighed heavily upon his conscience. He had steeled himself to maintaining the pretence that Voldemort was dead to Scrimgeour and the newspapers but, as Dobby had said, there were going to be funerals. He was going to have to face Neville's grandmother and Kingsley's family. Would he be able to meet their eyes and lie outright?

He tossed restlessly while he wrestled with the problem. If anything could give him the strength to see it through, he finally decided, it was Merlin's prediction. Everything he had learned about Tom Riddle after encountering his Horcrux-ghost had strengthened his conviction that there was a spark of decency lurking deep inside that might blossom if properly cultivated. Now he just had to convince himself that helping to save the Wizarding world from impending disaster was going to make up for at least some of the harm Voldemort had done…

Sleep finally claimed his conscious mind, but his dreams were troubled. He awoke before dawn and sat up in bed with a groan, weary from a restless night and his ribs aching from Nagini's attack. After blinking in the darkness for a few moments, he decided he might as well get out of bed – and was immediately confronted by a new problem: getting dressed. He hoped Nagini had either left his room or was sound asleep because he really didn't want to parade around naked before her unsettling gaze…

* * *

When he arrived at the Ministry, the Atrium was already bustling with activity.

"Excuse me!" said a loud voice from behind him and he quickly stepped away from the gilded fireplace to allow the new arrival room to enter. A young woman with short hair hurried around him. For a split second he was certain that it was Tonks, and nearly called out to her, but then she turned to greet another worker who was pushing a cart of files and folders toward the lifts and Harry caught his mistake.

He took a deep breath and continued across the Atrium. Things had changed noticeably since he'd last been there. Large screens placed at intervals high on the walls presented changing public service messages and announcements of special Ministry-sponsored events. There was a new staircase leading to the upper levels, bathed in light drifting down from a source high above. The Fountain of Magical Brethren that had been damaged two years ago in the duel between Dumbledore and Voldemort had been removed. In its place was a single statue of a robed and bearded wizard posed with wand upraised, levitating a tall plinth into a semicircle of stone pillars. Something about the tableau seemed vaguely familiar as Harry circled around it…

"You are here!"

Harry started and looked around to see who had spoken, but there was no one standing nearby.

"You are here!" the strident voice insisted.

There was a metallic console a short distance away with the word 'Information' flashing on a screen above it, and Harry walked over, curious. "Did you say something just now?" he asked, feeling a bit foolish talking to an apparently inanimate object.

"You are here!" the voice declared. The screen changed to an external view of the Ministry complex. "The Ministry of Magic is a historically significant structure housing government offices, the chamber of the Wizengamot, and collections of noteworthy documents and artefacts. Where do you wish to go?"

He had a sudden inspiration. "Is there a chapel?" he asked.

An image formed on the smooth surface in front of him: an arched door in a brick-trimmed frame. "The Chapel is to be found on the Atrium level. Valuable treasures of our spiritual heritage are displayed there, including an Illumined 'Life of St. Mungo'," an ornate book with moving images appeared on the screen, "and a mural of mythic scenes from the Citadel of Erebuni presented as a gift by the Hierophant in 1701." The book faded from view and was replaced by colourful glazed tiles depicting a broad-shouldered man with long dark hair and beard driving a golden chariot pulled by winged creatures with serpentine heads.

Harry felt light-headed. "How do I get there?"

"Take the hallway to the right of the staircase and turn left at the first cross-corridor."

"Thanks." He turned and peered about for the hallway.

"You are still here," the voice reproached.

"Erm, sorry. I'll leave now." He obligingly took several steps away.

"Harry!" Percy Weasley was striding toward him across the dark polished floor. "You're early." His appearance was polished as usual, though he looked tired.

"Who am I to keep the Minister for Magic waiting?"

Harry's sarcasm went unnoticed. "Excellent," Percy commented and whisked him past the Security booth and through the ornate golden gates to a vacant lift.

Harry waited until Ron's older brother punched a button and the doors swished shut before asking in a low voice, "D'you know why he wants to see me?"

Percy pressed the 'hold lift' button and they both braced themselves as the floor lurched beneath them. "He obviously wants to know what happened in Little Hangleton the other night, but there have been so many other things happening that it's difficult to say. He's been in briefings almost constantly for the last twenty-four hours. Have you heard about Robards?"

"The Head Auror?" Harry shook his head. "No. What happened?"

"He's been suspended. It appears that he falsified official records in an effort to cover up some private problems."

"He hasn't been working with the Death Eaters, has he?"

"That was the chief concern, naturally. From what I've been able to piece together, it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep his girlfriend's existence a secret from his wife. At any rate, the investigators uncovered some inconsistencies in the duty roster and a number of other people have been suspended as well – including Dad and Tonks."

"Why them?"

"It was probably their involvement with the Order. You see, St. Mungo's notified Magical Law Enforcement when Dad was brought in to have his injuries treated, and it was just at the time when the Robards investigation was looking for instances of people being involved in unofficial operations."

"So I just have to tell Scrimgeour they were with me when Voldemort was defeated," Harry reasoned. "That will clear the whole thing up – won't it?"

"So one would hope, but the Minister may decide to use this as an opportunity to remove those he considers undesirable from the Department. And you must realise if Dad is sacked, then Ron will have no chance whatever to be accepted into Auror training."

Harry recalled what Hermione had said last night, and had to agree that the aftermath of Voldemort's defeat was turning out to be much less glamorous than he'd once supposed it might be. He sighed heavily. "What else has been going on?"

Percy hesitated. "The Minister was noticeably upset by news he from overseas yesterday."

That didn't mean much to Harry. "News about what?"

"I don't really know," Percy said, clearly perturbed that he hadn't been able to glean more from his various sources. "Whatever is going on elsewhere in the world, there hasn't been any obvious benefit to us as of yet since the elimination of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named from British politics and I find that troubling." He punched the 'release lift' button. With a shudder the compartment began to move once more.

Harry couldn't help speculating whether any of these events were related to the impending crisis Merlin had warned about, and was lost in thought as the doors opened and Percy led the way down the carpeted corridor to the Minister's office.

An aide was hovering outside with a tray and Harry detected the aroma of a Pepper-up potion. "Excellent timing, Dodson," Percy commended. He took the steaming goblet and opened the door.

Scrimgeour's office looked much the same as Harry remembered, except that an inner door that he hadn't previously noticed was open. Inside, he glimpsed a sofa with a rumpled blanket. Formal robes hung from a coat stand along with two jackets and a waistcoat.

"Your potion is here, sir," Percy announced. "And Harry Potter has arrived."

"Is it eight already?" Scrimgeour walked into view, tightening the knot of his tie. His haggard appearance reminded Harry more than ever of a scarred old lion. He closed the door to his private quarters, and Harry waited patiently by his desk while he swallowed the potion with a grimace and handed the empty goblet to Percy. "I want to be notified as soon as the Mages' delegation arrives."

"Yes, sir." Percy closed the office door behind him without even a surreptitious glance at Harry.

The Minister indicated a chair in front of his desk. "I've only had three hours sleep over the last two days, Harry. You can make my morning a bit better by telling me what happened in Little Hangleton."

"What do you mean?" Harry hedged.

Scrimgeour settled in the leather chair behind his desk with a sour look. "One of my best Aurors is dead, another injured, a mansion burned to the ground and the nearby Muggle village was threatened by Fiendefyre. I want to know what happened."

The Minister had always begun their previous interviews in a friendlier manner, saving his ultimatums until later in the discussion. With the man in such a bad mood, Harry wasn't anxious to spend any more time with him than necessary. He ignored the proffered chair, and decided to remain standing in the dim hope that he could keep the meeting short.

"There are things I want to know, too," he said, keeping his voice level and taking advantage of his position to look down at the Minister for a change. "For instance, why are your people harassing my friends in St. Mungo's?"

"We have an arrangement with the facility to be notified whenever a Ministry employee is seen for treatment of injuries apparently sustained in the line of duty," Scrimgeour told him. "Aurors were dispatched when we were informed about Arthur Weasley. Unfortunately, he was unwilling to cooperate."

"So you just suspended him?"

The Minister appeared unsurprised at Harry's knowledge. "That's standard procedure when an employee is under investigation."

"Under investigation? What is it exactly that you suspect him of having done?" Harry persisted.

The older man scowled, clearly irritated at having to look up in order to maintain eye contact. "This is strictly confidential, and I expect you to keep it to yourself. A number of inconsistencies in official records have been noted recently, and have been tracked down to someone in the office of the Head Auror." He peered at Harry across the desk. "The evidence indicates that certain employees were present in situations to which they had not been officially assigned, for instance, guarding the Hall of Prophecy…fighting Death Eaters in the Department of Mysteries...and now it seems that some of my best people were involved in a battle in Yorkshire when they were supposedly off-duty. I need to know whether they were ordered there and, if so, by whom. There was no clearance given for any of those people to be involved in a covert operation."

"They weren't there because anyone ordered them to do anything," Harry said impatiently. "I thought I might find something in that mansion that would help me against Voldemort. Some of my friends who happen to work for the Ministry offered to go along, in case the house was being watched by Death Eaters."

Scrimgeour made an impatient gesture. "We know there was an altercation with the followers of He Who Must Not Be Named."

"It's okay to call him Voldemort now," Harry shot back. "I defeated him two nights ago at Little Hangleton."

The Minister regarded Harry in silence and his harsh expression melted. "You _killed_ him?" he asked faintly. "He's _dead_?"

Harry was so accustomed to Scrimgeour ordering, demanding and threatening that this change in his demeanour left him bewildered. As unpleasant as the man was, he had been dedicated to the destruction of Voldemort's regime and, while Harry had expected him to be annoyed, he never imagined that he would be dismayed by the news.

And then a dormant presence at the back of his mind lazily uncoiled. It studied the situation with a certain detached amusement, and Harry swayed in a moment of vertigo as a paradigm subtly shifted in his mind. He blinked several times…and saw the Minister for Magic from an entirely new perspective.

Voldemort had been the single greatest threat to the Wizarding world during Scrimgeour's lifetime; he had fought the Dark Lord first as an Auror and then as Minister for Magic. And though he'd had the finest training and all the other resources of the government of Wizarding Britain behind him, his achievements had been mediocre at best. His entire career had been a struggle to remain relevant as the Order of the Phoenix had crippled Voldemort's organization in the first War, and then the magical populace had placed all its hope in Harry, a mere child chosen by Prophecy.

Harry knew Scrimgeour well enough to doubt it would take very long for him to rebound from this shock, and he didn't think it likely that he would gracefully accept the news that Voldemort had been defeated, not by a team of crack Aurors, but by the Chosen One and his companions. Scrimgeour would regard it as a personal failure to have taken no part whatever in Voldemort's defeat, and Harry could easily imagine him twisting the facts so that no heroic act went unpunished.

With the careers of his friends in the balance and Merlin's warning fresh in his mind, Harry knew that he couldn't achieve what he wanted by blustering and demanding as he had done in the past. He needed to find some way to enlist Scrimgeour's cooperation so that he would reinstate Arthur Weasley and Tonks and exonerate Shacklebolt. He somehow had to reassure Scrimgeour that he posed no threat to his Administration, so that he wouldn't take his petty vengeance out on Percy and Ron. And he desperately needed to keep the lines of communication open so that he would have access to the Ministry's sources of information in order to fulfil Merlin's decree.

The cool presence nudged his thoughts and from the disarray a solution emerged. A corner of Harry's mouth twitched upward. Ironically enough, he was about to act for the greater good and he was fairly certain that Dumbledore wouldn't approve if he knew.

Harry took a deep breath. "I haven't announced it to the press yet because I wanted to talk to you first."

With obvious difficulty, Scrimgeour wrenched his attention away from contemplation of the ashes of his life's work. "What can the Minister for Magic do for you, Harry?" he asked in a tired voice.

"I want everyone to know that Kingsley gave his life opposing Voldemort and the Death Eaters," Harry answered promptly. "Arthur Weasley, Alastor Moody and Nymphadora Tonks were indispensable in the battle. Neville Longbottom was killed while-"

"Merlin…," Scrimgeour muttered to himself.

Harry stumbled to a halt at the unexpected mention of one of the two names foremost in his mind. "What? What did you say?"

"Orders of Merlin will have to be awarded," the Minister elucidated, seemingly revived by the possibilities of the situation. "There will be memorial services first, of course. I will address the Wizengamot…hmmm, perhaps I should present you to the Wizengamot…" He poked a quill into life and it set about scratching notes on a pad of paper.

"Erm…in the past, you've told me how important it is that I stand with the Ministry," Harry prompted.

Scrimgeour's expression of shock was comical, and Harry had to look out the window to keep from laughing. "Since there's no longer any immediate threat to my life, I find myself with time on my hands and nothing particular to keep me occupied. I might be able to help you out. Of course," he continued, "I want something in return."

The Minister sighed heavily. "We've had numerous discussions about why it is impossible to legally exonerate Sirius Black-"

"In the last twenty-four hours," Harry said coldly, "I have learned about secret Ministry committees that handle all sorts of 'impossible' situations. There are always exceptions to the rules. And as the heir to the Potter and Black fortunes, it is not only my duty to determine a fitting legacy for my family, but my privilege to ensure that their memorial has been sufficiently endowed to be successful." He waited patiently for his words to take effect.

"Perhaps I was too hasty when we talked about this before," Scrimgeour said at last. "What do you have in mind?"

Harry smiled, dragging a chair closer to the desk and sitting down. "I was an orphan raised among Muggles and, once upon a time, so was Lord Voldemort. I experienced what it was like to grow up deprived of my heritage, and the Dark Lord is proof of the damage that can be done to an impressionable young mind. The first thing I'd like to do is to set up a program to encourage Wizarding adults to adopt or to become foster parents of orphaned children. Second, I want to provide stipends so that orphans can have the chance to enjoy the same activities as other children."

The Minister nodded and his quill began to scribble again. "Interesting," he muttered. "Of course, I'll have to run your ideas by the Department for Magical Education. And by the way," he added without looking up, "what is the Ministry to receive in the way of cooperation from you?"

"Exactly what you've wanted in the past." Harry didn't bother to conceal his contempt. "I'll be your front-man, your poster boy, your loyal supporter when I speak to the papers. That is, as long as you continue to work with me. If you throw one of my friends into prison again or have someone sacked because they belonged to the Order, the deal's off."

"Very well." Scrimgeour nodded curtly. "We'll be seeing each other over the next few days at the various memorial ceremonies, and I will contact you about the awards presentations and so forth."

Harry stood up and stretched, determined to maintain the new balance of power he'd engineered. "Good. I want to move forward with this while there's till momentum."

Scrimgeour rose. "I understand. Thank you for coming to see me today, Harry." He opened the door of his office just as Percy was standing up from his desk in the anteroom with a note in his hand.

"Security just informed me that Mr. White has arrived. Should I bring him up?"

"Excellent." The Minister's spirits seemed completely restored. "As long as I'm taking Harry downstairs, I'll meet him myself. As a matter of fact, I'd like to introduce you to Gavin White, Harry. You grew up among Muggles, and I'd like your impression of the man."

"Is he part of the Prime Minister's staff?" Harry asked, conscious of the sudden improvement in his status as they walked to the lift.

"It's quite an interesting case." Scrimgeour pressed the button and slid a hand into a pocket as they waited. Harry felt a sense of unreality; the Minister actually seemed to be relaxed in his presence. "He's a delegate from the Council of Mages, a group of Muggles who claim to practise magic. They're seeking official recognition by the Ministry and want representation in the Wizengamot."

Harry thought about the horoscopes he'd seen in the newspapers, and the people he'd seen on the telly at the Dursley's who claimed to be able to predict the future or see ghosts. "If they can do magic," he reasoned, "then they must have Wizarding ancestry, and they should be accepted just like any other Muggle-born person."

"So the other Minister believes. I am not entirely convinced by their claims. If they are of Wizarding kind, their culture diverged from ours so long ago that they know nothing of our ways and their use of magic is much different from our own. They profess," he added, "to be descendents of the students of Merlin."

The lift stopped and the doors slid open while Harry was still pondering this revelation. It could hardly be a coincidence, he decided. He needed to discover more about these people and what knew of Merlin.

They passed suites of offices occupied by the Department of Magical Education and the Bureau of Wizarding Housing and Municipal Development and came to bright, open area where tables and benches were spaced among potted trees around the decorative bronze banister that edged the broad staircase. Harry looked up to see an enormous skylight several stories above.

"I hope you don't mind taking the stairs," Scrimgeour said. "The Mages disapprove of magic that seems to duplicate Muggle technology, and our lift falls into that category, I'm afraid." He indicated the sitting area. "We originally planned to use a magical sky, but the natural light has a beneficial effect in reducing stress," he explained as they descended. "Lounges like this have been installed on each floor so the employees can enjoy their breaks in a natural setting."

"What will you do with the Mages if the Wizengamot decides not to admit them?" Harry ventured.

"They'll be Obliviated," the Minister answered shortly. "We're limiting the number of Mages involved in the process so as to keep the matter contained in case the need eventuates."

Harry's jaw tightened. The Wizarding world was a dangerous place, as he well knew, and perhaps it might be a kindness to disallow their claims for their own protection. But because of his own experiences with the Ministry's brand of justice, he felt an irrational empathy for the Mages and wondered whether there was anything he could do to help their cause succeed.

Two figures in light-coloured hooded robes were waiting below. One of them leaned on a staff that reminded Harry of the one Moody used, while the other stood with arms hands folded in wide sleeves.

"Good morning, Mr. White," Scrimgeour called in a pleasant voice as they approached the foot of the stairway.

The Mage with the staff drew back his hood, revealing the square face of a middle-aged man with short brown hair and a closely-trimmed beard. "Good morning, Minister," the Mage replied in an accent that sounded unfamiliar to Harry. "The other members of the delegation are viewing the archives display and should be here shortly. This," he indicated the person next to him, "is Ewan Hollis."

The other Mage lowered his hood. He was a young man and the first thing Harry noticed was his eyes; they were honey-brown in colour and expressed a warmth that took him by surprise. His curly hair was honey-brown as well, his features were handsome and his smile was open and sincere.

"I'd like you to meet Harry Potter," Scrimgeour was saying. "Harry has courageously devoted himself to opposing those who use the power of magic to harm others, and later today I will be announcing his victory in single combat over the most powerful and feared Dark wizard in centuries."

Harry's head snapped around, startled and discomfited by Scrimgeour's unusually effusive praise. The Minister had the air of a man who had chosen his words deliberately and seemed pleased with the result.

Gavin White bowed to Harry with grave respect. "Merlin prophesied that a commanding youth would defeat an evil lord. Perhaps," he glanced at Scrimgeour, "the time has come when another of Merlin's other prophecies will be fulfilled, and Britons of one heritage will be amiably reunited."

Looking away in embarrassment, Harry saw Percy shepherding a group of people dressed in the light-coloured robes of the Mages.

Scrimgeour followed Harry's gaze. "Ah, the rest of the delegation has arrived. Harry, will you join us for breakfast?"

Guiltily, Harry remembered the serpent waiting at Grimmauld Place, and the promises he'd made - but it surely wouldn't hurt to postpone that particular duty for another hour. "Yes, thanks," he replied. He was rewarded with a shy smile from Ewan Hollis.

They climbed the stairs to find a buffet had been set out among the potted trees. Harry reminded himself of the Minister's request for his impression of Gavin White, and managed to sit across from him at one of the scattered tables. They were joined by Ewan Hollis and a woman who introduced herself as Rowan Wells.

Ewan took a sip of his juice and looked surprised. "This isn't orange juice."

"No, it's pumpkin juice. It's common in the Wizarding world. The first time I had it was when I went to Hogwarts."

"I understand your formal education lasts seven years," Gavin White commented. "It's a longstanding Celtic tradition that it takes seven years of study to master a skill."

"Where did you go to school?" Harry asked Ewan.

"I attend classes in our village," the other young man answered. "And I'm taking a degree at University."

Harry was puzzled at that, since Ewan seemed to be around Percy's age. "You're not finished with your training in magic?"

"We insist that our young people come of age before they profess to join our community," Rowan Wells explained. "It is a serious commitment that is made to oneself and to the gods."

"Religion isn't a big part of the Wizarding world," Harry told them.

"Yet you have a hospital named for St. Mungo," White pointed out.

"That's true," Harry replied. "But I don't even know who he was."

"I do," Ewan unexpectedly volunteered. "He was a knight known as Kentigern, the son of Sir Owain of the Round table and the grandson of Morgan le Fay and King Urien of Orkney, which makes him the great-nephew of King Arthur. He was converted to Christianity and became a monk known for his healing powers."

"Oh," Harry answered coolly. "There is an Illumined book of his life downstairs in the chapel. Would you like to see it?"

Ewan's eyes lit up for a just a moment, but he quickly composed his features. "I suppose another time would be more appropriate," he said wistfully.

White chuckled. "I see hospitality as well as bravery number among your traits, young Harry. There's plenty of time before our meeting starts and I would like to see this book myself."

As they stood up from the table, Scrimgeour appeared. "They'd like to see the chapel," Harry informed him.

"An excellent idea," the Minister said, with a heartiness that made Harry wonder how much longer the man could sustain such a congenial manner. He led them back down to the Atrium level, around the staircase and along a corridor until they turned a corner and saw an arched door in a brickwork frame. Scrimgeour turned the ornate latch and held the door open for them.  
The room was lit by hanging lamps with panels of glass in jewel-like colours. Scrimgeour went immediately to a glass case and removed a ring of keys from his pocket. "The Custodian of the Archives has probably forgotten I have these," he said conspiratorially. Gavin White waited politely as the Minister started trying keys in the lock.

Harry looked around the room casually but, almost before he realised it, he was drawn over to a nook curtained with brocade hangings.

"What's in here?" Ewan asked quietly, but Harry didn't hear him. He was gazing in awe at Prince Kassapraxites. Light glittered across the tiny pieces of tile, making the god's cloak seem to billow, and the wings of the serpent-headed creatures pulling his chariot to ripple as if in flight. The image somehow struck a chord in the depths of his memory. _I know you,_ Harry said to himself.

_I know you!_ A resonant voice echoed as the tiles blurred, and the Prince turned a piercing gaze upon him. He laughed and made an imperious gesture and Harry saw a throng of people that he recognised: his parents and grandparents and great-grandparents, just as they had appeared to him in the Mirror of Erised. Clustered behind them were people wearing old-fashioned garments like those he had seen in books, men with ruffled collars and women in stiff gowns, people wearing draped tunics and people in long, ornate robes and somehow he recognised a bit of himself in the face of each person he saw. Now they were dressed in linen and adorned with gold armbands and he knew that some of them were scribes and some of them were advisors, and there were still more of his ancestors gathered together, wearing polished breastplates and rough cloth and tanned skins until…

A short, sturdy woman with heavy features and wrapped in furs listened intently to a serpent coiled around her wrist. She lifted her head and gazed directly at Harry across the millennia through eyes of a startling green…

With a jolt, Harry staggered backward and was caught from behind by strong, supportive arms. "Is something wrong?" Ewan said, his voice urgent.

The woman's face faded and he was staring at the Prince. _I know you._ Harry felt the hairs rise along the back of his neck and realised that he had broken into a cold sweat. _I know you and you are Mine._

Then there was a roaring in his ears, and Harry stood gaping at ancient tiles that glowed softly in the lamplight.

"Harry?"

He saw the alarm in Ewan's face. "I have to go," he said, in a sudden hurry.

"I think you should sit down and let me get you some juice," the young Mage said sternly.

"I'm okay, really," Harry tried to reassure him. "I – I just remembered something I have to do."

"I suppose…if you're certain that you feel alright." Ewan let go his shoulder, visibly restraining his curiosity. "I hope we'll meet again, Harry."

"I hope so, too," Harry said. His earlier worries about the outcome of the Mages' claims resurfaced, and he supposed if they were Obliviated he would never see Ewan again. He hurried toward the arched door.

"Leaving, Harry?" Scrimgeour asked.

"I promised to meet my friends." Harry glanced from Scrimgeour to Gavin White.

"May Fortune attend you," the Mage said simply.

"Thanks." Harry belatedly remembered his manners. "It was nice meeting you." He looked back at the alcove, but the curtains gathered to each side hid the glittering mosaic. He shivered with the memory the deep, resonant voice he had heard in his mind and quickly turned away. He desperately wanted to talk to the one person in the world who could tell him if he'd imagined the whole thing.

But first…Harry swore to himself. That meant he was going to have to deal with Nagini again.

**Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment!**


	7. Chapter 7

_"You know quite well, deep within you, that there is only a single magic, a single power, a single salvation…and that is love."_

-Hermann Hesse

**Author's Notes: **I can't believe it's been over a year since I updated! I appreciate the patience of all of you readers who have commented and encouraged me to continue writing this novel-length fic.

This story is basically canon compliant through Order of the Phoenix.

As always, heartfelt thanks to my beta**, hobtheknife**.

* * *

From the moment of his discovery that he was a direct descendant of Salazar Slytherin, Voldemort had recognized himself to be a man of unique destiny. He had set his mind accordingly to accomplish extraordinary things. He had attained top grades at Hogwarts, travelled the world in search of nearly-forgotten forms of magic, and become the youngest wizard ever to receive the title of Dark Lord. His name was feared, his power was respected, and his will was obeyed by loyal followers throughout the world. He was well on his way to achieving the greatness of his illustrious ancestor.

Or so he had thought until now.

When Harry had Disapparated and left him standing alone before the timbered cottage in the shadow of towering yews, a feeling of utter desolation descended upon him. All at once he felt completely irrelevant to the world he'd sought to reinvent.

He needed to banish that feeling before it drained his will. He closed his eyes and began the basic grounding exercise he'd learned as a young man from Enusat, the ancient Master of Dark Arts who had grudgingly accepted him as a student. First he visualized the massive planet under his feet anchoring him in the present, and slowly exhaled all trepidation and negativity. When his lungs were completely empty, he drew in a deep cleansing breath. Now he was ready to assess his position with objectivity.

Although his defeat was serious, it wasn't the most catastrophic loss he'd ever experienced. Unlike the debacle at Godric's Hollow, his Horcrux had functioned properly this time, and he still possessed the supreme advantage of inhabiting a corporeal body. Furthermore, his agenda in the wider Wizarding world had taken a decidedly favourable turn, with his followers having achieved a major victory in the European Wizengamot. When the Order of the Phoenix had invaded the Riddle manor, he and his Death Eaters had been in the process of removing the final traces of their occupancy before departing for the new headquarters that had been prepared for them on the Continent. He had been on the brink of triumph when Fate had once again disrupted his plans in the guise of Harry Potter.

It was pure luck, he reflected, that the bond between himself and Harry generated by the rebounded killing curse all those years ago had made the younger wizard hesitate in taking his life. Sheer good fortune that Harry's inability to make a decision had led them both to Merlin.

_Merlin._

He could still hardly believe that he had seen and spoken with the most revered figure in the history of Wizarding Britain. As Dark Lord, he knew that it was absolutely essential that the news that Merlin still somehow still lived and continued to influence people and shape events should reach his counterpart, the Hierophant.

His mouth twisted in a grimace. Whatever awaited him inside the cottage, it would be best to meet it and get it over with. He squared his shoulders and strode up the flagstone path to regally ascend the steps to the house.

The bizarre creature who had greeted him now curtsied deeply. "Welcome, your Lordship! Welcome to Spellton Yews!" Viewing her more closely, it was evident that she was a Hobgoblin; the stature, pointed ears and tusks were definitive of the species. She wiped tears from her eyes with a corner of her apron. "I thought this day would never come!"

"How do you know me?" he asked at his most charming.

"As if I wouldn't recognise Merope Gaunt's son, when me and my husband have looked after your people for generations! What did she call you, then?"

"I am Lord Voldemort," he replied with customary arrogance, but what his ears heard was quite different. "I am Ophion Gaunt." _What the hell? _he thought. And then, _Damn you, Merlin! _when he recalled the Mage's decree: _...bereft of name..._

"Ophion!" Mrs. Hatchet repeated fondly. "A fine name for his Lordship's successor. Oh, but if he had only lived to know you!" She became a bit misty-eyed again, and blinked away a tear as she held open the door for him.

'Ophion' felt a headache coming on, and wondered whether he would be permitted any respite from the Housekeeper's solicitude during his enforced visit. He glanced about the foyer while she closed and diligently locked the ancient wood door with a key from the chatelaine at her waist.

"I am Allie Hatchet, Housekeeper of Spellton Yews. Let me show you through the house, and I'll answer all your questions." She bobbed her head, and escorted him through the rooms, gesturing to the arches and doorways as they passed. "This is the parlour, here's the dining room, and the kitchen's just through that door."

He followed in silence. The house was cosy rather than grand, and he winced inwardly at the small rooms crowded with antique furniture and potted plants, the walls densely embellished with framed prints and drawings, the windows curtained with ruffles and lace, and the floors heavily cushioned with carpeting and exotic rugs.

"Me and Mr. Hatchet have a room just beyond, back near the pantry and laundry." She gestured for him to follow her down a short hall. "You'll find the private facilities in here, and further on are the bedrooms. The small one here is for company, and the larger one at the end of the hallway is yours. And this," she paused portentously before a closed door, "is the stairway to Lord Cornelius Eldritch's library and work room, him being the brother of your great-grandmother and the last wizard to inhabit Spellton Yews."

His eyebrows registered surprise and ,as he digested this information, she detached an ornate silver key from her chatelaine and placed it in his hand. "This belongs to you now," she told him, with a teary-eyed sniff. "I suppose you'll wish to spend most of your time up there, as did your Great-grand-uncle."

"My Great-grand-uncle?" he asked sharply. He had devoted years during his youth to exploring his bloodline, scrupulously documenting every branching of his family tree, and discovering as much information about each ancestor as possible. It was incomprehensible to be informed, at this late date, of the existence of a previously unknown relation, much less that he was the missing heir of said relation's estate.

Mrs Hatchet beamed at him, an expression that her impressive tusks rendered something less than reassuring. "His Lordship's sister Lucretia was the mother of Marvolo Gaunt's wife, Cloelia, who was your grandmother. Lord Eldritch was left a widower when he was yet a young man. His dear wife died before they could have children…"

So that was it! he thought. He could almost visualize the genealogy charts, and the notation 'Decessit sine prole' beneath the name of Cornelius Gaunt, could nearly recall dismissing as irrelevant to his search the brother of Lucretia Eldrith Gaunt, who had died without issue.

"…but His Lordship enjoyed all the nieces and nephews and often had them to visit. He was particularly fond of your mother, young Merope, so much so that he encouraged her to come away and live here after her mother's death, what with grief driving her father mad, and her brother growing up evil-tempered. His Lordship was greatly distressed when he learned she had run away from home. He hired his own investigators to find her, and he never gave up hope right up 'til the end. With Marvolo and Morfin squandering what little gold they ever had, his Lordship arranged to leave his estate to Merope, so she and her children might have a home after all was said and done." Mrs. Hatchet's ugly face gaped in a rather horrible smile. "And so his magic finally scooped you up and brought you here!"

"All this time, and I never knew..." He stared in fascination at the key in his palm.

_While I was all alone, growing up among strangers, someone had been looking for me, had even worried about what might have become of me. _He tried to imagine for a moment how different his life might have been, growing up under the guidance of a benevolent bachelor Uncle, and then gave it up, banishing that fruitless train of thought with a shake of the head. The Housekeeper possessed information he needed to survive here and now and, in spite of a headache and growing fatigue, he applied himself to obtaining the details he required. "Noble titles are quite rare in the Wizarding world, and yet you say that my Great-grand-uncle was reckoned a Lord?"

"Spellton isn't _of_ the Wizarding world," she informed him with some pride. "It sits on the verge of the Witchwood, and the paths that wind through this forest lead to farms and villages hereabouts - and beyond them, to other places entirely. My kind journeyed in the great migrations of the Faery folk, and some of us settled here, near the passages betwixt the worlds. Wizarding kind arrived next, and made alliances and settled down. Much later it was before mortals stepped foot on this island, and long before they ventured to the fringes of the Wood. Cornelius Eldridge was himself a mighty wizard, and was made Lord of Spellton by one of the Elvish families for great services he performed for them. But you'll have time to learn all about the history of the place now you've come to claim it."

"Mrs. Hatchet," he asked, deciding that directness was necessary, "what are the terms of my occupation of Spellton Yews?" He fixed his eyes upon hers, depending on his innate talents to determine whether she spoke truthfully.

"Why, I know of none! You are master of the house now, and may do as you wish."

He nodded, satisfied by the sincerity of her voice and eyes that she was ignorant of the injunctions Merlin had set upon him; he would have to discover for himself what further limits, if any had been set upon him in this place. "Very well. I would like to see the upstairs now."

"It's tucked right beneath the eaves, so watch your head when you go up. There's a fire laid in the hearth, should you want it. I need to attend to my chores but, if you need anything, just say so out loud and it will be taken care of." She favoured him with another of her horrible smiles, and walked back along the hallway with a tread that was surprisingly light for a creature of her bulk.

His Great-grand-uncle's study beckoned, and Voldemort fitted the ornate key into the lock. The door swung out, revealing a narrow stairway lit by sunlight filtering down from an unseen window. Anticipating a welcome respite, he ascended and stepped into the refuge of Cornelius Eldritch's inner sanctum.

The room appeared, like the rest of the cottage, no different in essence from those others he had occupied over the years, houses that had been provided by his followers, or uninhabited abodes, like his father's mansion, that he had temporarily occupied. The differences were in the details, and he was curious as to what sort of Wizard his uncle had been.

The walls of the workspace ran the length of the house, with a ceiling that angled sharply down to meet low side walls. At one end, a small winged dragon had been stuffed and hung suspended from the roof beam, wings spread over a table with a large brass orrery that rose above a disarray of books and charts. An ornate telescope stood nearby, aimed upward toward a skylight. Another table held a small rack of glass flasks and vials, and a large alembic. He picked up a bound notebook and flipped through pages of notations on various alchemical experiments. Over against the wall were shelves stocked with jars, their hand-lettered labels listing botanical ingredients that he recognised as having medicinal uses. The fireplace occupied the centre of one of the long walls and, across from it on the opposite wall, was a large desk. The rest of the room was filled with well-ordered bookcases. Perusing a few of the titles, it was apparent that his Great-grand-uncle had largely been interested in Wizarding history and the magic of the natural world.

Having made a full circuit of the room, he returned to the doorway and began to examine it in detail. Just how circumspect a wizard had Cornelius Eldritch been? He craned upward to scan the door frame and stooped down to inspect the threshold, where he found a ward of protection incised into the floor.

It took him by surprise. The device was the Sigil of the Prince, a powerful and ancient device that was seldom used in the modern Wizarding world.

_The boy was being pushed along by the crowd of other First Year students as they passed through the doors of the school. They waited, blinking in the brilliant light of candles and torches, while the elderly professor who had introduced himself as Merrythought counted heads. Tom Riddle gazed about with interest at the castle that was to be his home for the duration of the term. A large staircase faced them, lined with paintings, and leading up past the shadowy ceiling to dimly-seen balconies high above. From a large doorway nearby there issued a dull roar of voices, while to either side other doors, closed and dark, lined the long hallway. The aristocratic blond boy from the train, Malfoy, wandered away from the group to stand before one alcove, and the Italian, Sabini, or something like that, followed him. Since they had included Tom in their conversation on the way up from London, he drifted along behind. He heard Sabini whisper, "Malfoy! What have you found?" Malfoy stood looking up at a shape like a sideways figure eight carved in the stone above the door. Tom saw him trace the shape over his forehead. "Look, they have a chapel," Malfoy said. "You'll have a chance to learn about _real_ religion now, Riddle, instead of those ridiculous Muggle superstitions." _

_The scene changed and he was a young man standing in the Citadel's most ancient temple, wearing robes that were heavy with strands of darkened gold used to embroider the symbols of the office to which he had been invested. A shaft of sunlight shone through the stained glass panels high above, tinting the curling clouds of sweet incense green, purple and orange. The fiery Sigil still hung burning in the air over the Prince's altar where the Hierophant had traced it with his wand, and he heard the old man intone, "Lord Prince, make him worthy."_

"Make me worthy." His whispered words were loud in the silence of the attic room. It was difficult for him to believe that he had once been so desperate to gain status that he had subjected himself to that naive ritual. As it turned out, even though Malfoy had chosen to remain at the Citadel, no one had questioned his claim to the title of Dark Lord when he'd returned to Wizarding Britain.

His hand hovered above the ward, sensing that it was still active and potent. He stood up, dizzy for a moment but not unduly alarmed. He would not allow fatigue to distract him from that which still needed to be done...

_He had been distracted so many times before from the vow he had sworn in his youth to the Prince..._

Myth and legend, he thought impatiently, dismissing the notion. Turning back to the room, he carefully investigated the walls, the corners, the windows and beams and nodded in approval: the room had been adequately warded. He would inspect the rest of the house later, though he thought it probable that his Uncle Cornelius had secured the entire dwelling just as thoroughly.

He shrugged out of his borrowed robes, and tossed them on a chair. From the shelves of medicinal ingredients, he selected a jar of henbane and carried it over to the alchemy bench. He removed everything but the massive alembic from the counter, and carefully placed a single leaf from the jar in the centre of the cleared area.

He regarded the leaf for a long moment, raised his dominant hand to direct the power, and made the simple gesture that was part of the first spell taught to students at Hogwarts. "_Wingardium Leviosa!_

The leaf did not so much as quiver in the current of air generated by his passing hand.

Still pondering the problem, he looked about the room and noticed a bundle of sticks laid in the fireplace. "Spellton _Yews_," he muttered. He strode to the hearth and knelt to examine the kindling. As he'd suspected, most, if not all, of the twigs were of the wood of the eponymous yews that surrounded the property, and he selected one that was about eleven inches long. He held it between his hands and, failing to sense any liveliness in the makeshift wand, tried to infuse it with whatever power remained left to him.

He returned to the workbench and ordered his thoughts. Then he brandished the stick with all the authority he could muster."_Wingardium leviosa!"_

The leaf remained undisturbed.

He set the yew twig down next to the leaf, and leaned against the workbench while he reassessed his predicament. He had put Merlin's judgement to the test, and he was truly without name and power in the home of his ancestors. He still needed to determine whether he would be permitted to leave Spellton Yews, or able to send messages outside the Witchwood, but his vanity had been wounded enough for one day, and those things could wait until tomorrow.

The Dark Lord collected his robes, and wearily walked down the dim stairway. It seemed to take an inordinate length of time to reach the room at the end of the hall. He had the presence of mind to close the door behind him before collapsing on the bed. Sleep engulfed him and his consciousness, exhausted from the experience of near-death, rested dreamless while the molecules of his body completed the process of regeneration begun by the activation of his final Horcrux.

When he awakened, the sunlight in the half-open window had a strong, late morning quality and a cool breeze fluttered the curtains. He turned over on his back and stretched out with a feeling of physical well-being he'd not known in years; in fact, not since before the events of Godric's Hollow.

And then he remembered: he was a prisoner. Although the bed was clean and comfortable, the curtains were of elegant lace and the furnishings were fine antiques, his Great-Uncle's cottage was as much a prison as if it had been a stone tower guarded by an iron portcullis, drawbridge and moat.

He still needed to determine the physical limits of his confinement. Was there any part of the cottage to which he would be denied access? Would he be permitted to venture outside the cottage walls? And what of the Witchwood and the otherworldly paths that lay so tantalizingly near?

Assuming all Merlin's injunctions held as true as the ones he had already tested, how could he turn the situation to best advantage? Much, probably too much, depended upon Harry's cooperation, but in the meantime he could sift for information about the approach of the 'great peril' in the newspapers. He should also determine what sorts of assets his uncle had left him, and arrange the financial and magical resources so they would be available when needed. And he definitely needed more information from Mrs. Hatchet.

He sat up in bed, wondering whether it would be possible to accomplish the task to which Merlin had bound him in time to join his followers on the Continent for the meeting of the International Confederation of Wizards, and reluctantly shook his head. It was better to take things one day at a time than to indulge in planning a future which might never come to pass.

He managed the necessity of having to shave and, afterward, found that his clothing had been cleaned and laid out for him while he bathed. He made a mental note to ask Mrs. Hatchet about acquiring a wardrobe sufficient for his needs.

As he passed the tall clock in the hallway, he noted that it was past ten o'clock. He almost expected to see Harry sitting at the dining room table, but it was unoccupied. However, the day was still young, and he permitted concern to tinge his thoughts for but a brief moment.

The housekeeper bustled in with a cup and saucer. "Do you prefer coffee, tea or chocolate?"

"Green tea, thank you. I'm expecting a visitor today, Mrs. Hatchet. Please show him in as soon as he arrives."

"Of course, your Lordship. Would you like eggs for breakfast? I can whip up a nice omelette, if you like."

He found that he was voraciously hungry, which was quite unusual. Obviously, his body needed extra sustenance as well as sleep to replenish his vigour. He devoured six eggs and two plates of toast, which provided the opportunity to put more questions to the housekeeper.

"I wonder, Mrs. Hatchet, how you knew to expect my arrival?"

"A message arrived yesterday from the estate's solicitor, Laurel Greengrass. It were a right surprise to me and Mr. Hatchet, and we hurried to make the house ready for you."

"Would it be possible to arrange for a meeting with Mrs. Greengrass to discuss the estate? I would like to know what, exactly, I have inherited."

"Of course, I'll send her a message this very afternoon."

"Do you use owls?" he inquired. If so, he wondered whether there might be a roundabout way to let Lucius and the others know of his predicament.

"Goodness, no!" she replied with a laugh that sounded disconcertingly like a pig grunting. "Owls avoid the Witchwood. Their sense of direction gets confused by the forest paths that lead to other realms. Spellton village proper is as close as they'll approach. The post office there keeps a few owls to use for mail."

_...the forest paths that lead to other realms..._He mustn't place too much hope in that route of escape. Nonetheless, he tucked it away for future consideration.

"And I must arrange to have your personal belongings packed and delivered," she continued.

He assumed a wounded expression. "Sadly, Mrs. Hatchet, my home was ransacked and destroyed by vandals the night before I arrived. They set a fire, and everything I owned was destroyed."

"Oh, you poor dear! The moment I saw you I thought you seemed like a man who had recently seen calamity. It was a right fortunate time for you to be brought here!" She smiled in what was probably meant to be a reassuring manner. "Don't you worry about a thing. Make a list of your sizes, and I'll arrange to have everything you need delivered." She collected the teapot and plates, and soon returned with more tea and a fresh stack of toast. "You're so much like your Great Uncle that I suppose you were greatly attached to your books. He had accounts with all the booksellers, so you can order replacements for what you lost."

He beamed at her. "Thank you, Mrs. Hatchet. I feel as if I belong here." He hurriedly took a swallow of tea to rinse the taste of those saccharine words from his mouth. "You call me 'your Lordship' as if you are certain the title is hereditary."

"Well, 'tis true that the Fae keep much to themselves these days but, truth be told, they make little difference between this mortal and that. Should your Great-Uncle's patron appear, I doubt it would even occur to him that you weren't Lord Cornelius and, if he _should_ notice, it probably wouldn't make a difference to him. The Fae are rather nearsighted in that respect. I suppose it has to do with being immortal. Why, just a few weeks ago, one of them returned to the Witchwood after being away for a hundred years, and came to the Spellton market looking for her favourite candle maker. Of course, the candle maker had passed away, but one of her granddaughters was there, selling honey and beeswax as her family has always done, and the Fairy just chattered away and bought her candles, calling her by her grandmother's name all the while." She laughed again, and he winced at the sound.

The clock began to chime noon. "Will you take anything else, your lordship?" she asked, gathering the empty plates from the table before him.

"Nothing else to eat, but I would like to read the daily newspapers and weekly news magazines."

She nodded. "I'll arrange to have them delivered." She returned to the kitchen.

Voldemort stood up from the table, and wondered whether Harry had forgotten about his promise or whether he had been detained in some way. That thought carried with it some anxiety, because he knew how arbitrarily the Ministry of Magic could operate. Perhaps with the Dark Lord out of the picture, the Minister now believed Harry himself to be a threat, and had ordered him arrested on some trumped-up charge. His pulse quickened in anger as he pictured himself trapped in this cottage, unable to fulfil Merlin's judgement because Harry had been sent to Azkaban...

With a loud thump, a pile of newspapers and magazines appeared on the table. He expelled a breath he'd not realised he'd been holding, and ruefully shook his head to clear it of those negative thoughts. He obviously needed to take extra care to maintain his equilibrium until he was quite settled in this new body.

A glance at the headlines revealed that the news of his defeat had not yet been made public. He gathered the papers under his arm, and went upstairs to peruse them in his uncles' study.

Three hours later, he pushed aside the parchment and quill he'd used to make notes. He had read the speculations as to who might be appointed to replace Minerva McGonagall as Head of Hogwarts, the description of a protest demonstration that had disrupted a retirement tea for a Ministry Undersecretary, who had won the Daily Prophet's lottery and was retiring to Malta, and an analysis of the possible impact Gringott's choice of a new Chief Financial Officer might have on the value of the galleon. As he scanned the pages, a suspicion formed in the back of his mind and began to grow stronger as he skimmed through reports of the innumerable trivial incidents of the past few days. On the face of it, nothing yet seemed to have occurred that might signify the impending doom of the Wizarding World. What if the threat Merlin had foreseen was years, or even decades, away?

Sheets of newsprint slipped from his suddenly numb fingers, and his skin felt clammy as panic gripped him. He was a prisoner who could only be freed by a conjunction of future events. Without magic to reverse the effects of aging, it was quite possible that when the time arrived and he had fulfilled Merlin's terms, he might be too old and feeble to resume the task he had begun as Dark Lord. Without his presence as their leader, his followers might well abandon the cause they had sworn to uphold. It was even possible that in his enforced absence a new Dark Lord would be created to replace him.

"No!" He pushed away from the workbench. He was the Heir of Slytherin! It was inconceivable that his life's work would only amount to a minor footnote in the history books. He stared wildly around his Great-Uncle's work room, desperately seeking something among the array of books and magical implements that could be used to demonstrate the validity of his existence.

But he had been deprived of the use of magic. How could he continue as Dark Lord if he was as powerless as a Squib?

He started at a loud noise from downstairs. It was repeated a few seconds later and he realised someone was knocking at the cottage door. In an instant he knew who it was. "Harry!" He breathed the name like a prayer of thanksgiving. Harry had kept his promise and returned. Voldemort could sense Nagini's presence as well.

His turmoil evaporated. His abandoned his research, and hurried downstairs. He experienced a brief feeling of disgust at having tormented himself with groundless fears, but that was quickly replaced with his old confidence. He was still in control and, with Nagini to advise him and Harry acting as his agent, he would soon be free to resume his place in the world.

"Oh, yes, I remember you from yesterday," he heard Allie Hatchet say. "Come in! His Lordship is expecting you. Oh, my..."

Harry was holding the door open for Nagini, who took her time entering the house, sniffing the air with her forked tongue and looking about. Voldemort couldn't suppress the tiniest smile of satisfaction. It was very good to have Nagini back with him. "This is Harry Potter," he informed the Housekeeper. "We are working on a project together. The serpent is called Nagini She has been my companion for many years, and will be staying here with me."

"Of course, your Lordship. Will you and your friends take refreshments?" Mrs. Hatchet asked. "I'm sure there will be plenty of rats in the barn for your friend."

"I'm not hungry, thanks," Harry informed her.

Voldemort looked at the young wizard sharply, but the humour in his remark seemed to have been unintentional. "Later, perhaps," he answered the Housekeeper. She curtsied and swept from the room.

Nagini slithered closer and circled around her Master. She stretched up until her face hovered in front of his own, and studied him closely.

"She threatened to kill me if anything happened to you," Harry complained in Parseltongue.

"She is the most loyal of my servants," Voldemort answered. "I am very glad you brought her to me."

"You look and sssmell like a Muggle," the serpent declared. "How did thisss happen?"

"I will tell you everything - later." Voldemort stroked her head fondly while she stared into his eyes. He felt her sifting his thoughts in her familiar, not quite reptilian fashion. After a long moment she slowly lowered herself to the floor, and sought a corner of the parlour in which to arrange herself in graceful coils.

Harry took the opportunity to drop into a chair. "Do you know what time it is?"

"Past three o'clock. I expected you much earlier," the Dark Lord chided. Now that he was able to focus his attention fully on Harry, he saw signs of strain on his handsome features.

Harry ran a hand through his unruly hair. "I didn't sleep very well, and I had to get up early to meet with the Minister of Magic."

Voldemort tensed slightly as he recalled his earlier worries along those lines, and wondered if he'd had a premonition. "And how is the Honourable Rufus Scrimgeour?" he asked carefully.

"Prickly as ever." Harry said, grimacing. "He didn't take the news of your death very well at first."

"Of course," Voldemort answered, mollified. "You had the impertinence to achieve what the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had not been able to accomplish. Not to mention that the news of my death was extremely premature."

Harry ignored that last part. "I had to _negotiate_."

"Oh? And what did he offer you?"

The younger man shifted uncomfortably. "It was more like what I had to offer him."

Voldemort raised an eyebrow. "You bribed the Minister for Magic? What a delightful surprise!"

"You make it sound like I did something illegal." Harry sounded annoyed. "I just agreed to start publicly supporting the Ministry: make appearances at events, be upbeat when reporters ask me questions. I thought it would be a good idea to stay in his good graces, what with Merlin predicting dire catastrophe and the end of the world."

The Dark Lord sensed that Harry wasn't telling him everything and, although the younger wizard's Occlumency had never posed a challenge, he welcomed the opportunity to test his skills. He leaned forward in his chair and met the younger man's eyes. "Did you learn anything that might have some bearing on our task?"

"Other than that the Head Auror's about to be sacked for using official records to hide that he's been cheating on his wife, no." Harry paused. "There was something else, though, something that doesn't have anything to do with what Merlin said."

Voldemort waited with an expression of patient understanding. He found that he was obscurely comforted by the younger wizard's presence, and felt that he wanted to prolong his stay as long as possible.

"I found out that there's still a chapel at the Ministry. I don't think many people know about it. It's almost like a museum." Harry frowned as he continued. "There's an old picture of the Prince in an alcove that was a gift from the Hierophant centuries ago." The younger wizard hesitated. "I don't know how to say this, but...he talked to me. The Prince, I mean. He said I belonged to him...and I don't know what that means." It was obvious that Harry was still disturbed by the experience. "I don't suppose that happens to everyone, does it?"

Voldemort felt a twinge that might have been jealousy. He had never been a mystic. The few strange things he had experienced had always occurred when he was in a half-conscious state while activating a Horcrux, and had been easily explained away later as hallucinations brought about by lack of oxygen. Still, he found it irksome that the Prince, if indeed he existed, seemed so often to favour ordinary wizards with his presence yet had never once spoken directly to his Dark Lord.

"I cannot explain what you experienced today," he said at last, "but if I have to hazard a guess, I would say that if the Prince wants you to do something he will tell you so plainly."

"What makes you think that?" Harry prompted.

The Dark Lord hesitated, unused to sharing his past with anyone. "Because an old friend once confided to me that the Prince had appeared to him in the Hogwarts chapel, and told him exactly what he wanted him to do with his life."

Harry's eyes widened. "Did your friend do what the Prince told him?"

"Yes. Not at once, of course. He was a prudent man, and he told his family that he was going to go on a long expedition from which he might not return. He made out his will so they would be able to live in comfort, said farewell to his friends, and made the journey to the Citadel. He was accepted into priestly studies and, for all I know, he dwells there still. Perhaps he has even become Hierophant by now."

"So you never saw him again?" Harry sounded wistful, and Voldemort guessed that he was trying to imagine himself leaving his friends and taking up studies in a distant land.

"Just once, when Nagini saved my life after I had been disembodied by the Killing curse. She brought me to the Citadel and I recognised his presence, although I was not in any condition at the time to renew our friendship."

"Don't you miss him?" Harry persisted.

Voldemort sighed; time had given him a perspective that Harry was simply too young to grasp. "I have lost many friends over the years. Some of them drifted away, some of them died in my service, and one or two turned against me and tried to kill me. As Dark Lord, I do not have the luxury of regret. The past is over and done."

Harry looked sombre. "Two of my friends died the other night. One of them had no living family, so only his friends and co-workers from Magical Law Enforcement will miss him. The other one, the one you killed, was the son of the members of the Order of the Phoenix who were hexed out of their minds by the Lestranges. When I got home from the meeting with Scrimgeour today, there was an owl waiting for me from his grandmother inviting me to dinner tonight. Do you know what she wrote? She _thanked_ me - " Harry swallowed and squeezed his eyes shut several times before continuing in a shaky voice, "she thanked me for giving him the opportunity to die in such a noble cause." He looked around the parlour, blinking rapidly, and when his gaze returned to Voldemort his eyes were moist and his expression accusatory.

"You must visit his family, of course, and tell them how deeply you have been touched by his brave death," Voldemort said in a soothing voice. Inwardly, he was alarmed that the younger wizard might become so taken up by events in his friend's lives and the wider Wizarding world that he would forget that the Dark Lord needed him in order to fulfil Merlin's decree. "While difficult, such things are expected of leaders, and I have made my share of condolences to those who have died for me. Those who mourn will lean on you for strength and will expect words of comfort at the funerals to soothe their grief through the years. I can help you through this."

"You caused all this in the first place," Harry said with quiet rage.

Voldemort knew he needed all the charisma he possessed to deflect the younger wizard's anger, so as to retain him as an ally. "There have been far too many deaths, on both sides of this conflict," he said, his voice tinged with the sadness of decades of lost comrades. "But to whom should we assign ultimate responsibility? To you, his role model? His grandmother, who expected him to win the battle his parents lost? Bellatrix and Rodolphus, for cursing his parents? Dumbledore, who enlisted his parents in the Order? Back to the origins of this conflict, the establishment of the Statute of Secrecy?"

"Is that where it all started?" Harry asked, confused, as Voldemort had intended.

"It tends to be glossed over in History of Magic because it makes most Wizarding folk uncomfortable these days to remember that we have engaged in a War against ourselves which began in the seventeenth century, and of which the latest skirmish was fought two days ago."

Harry leaned forward in interest, captivated by the tale, and so Voldemort continued.

"Wizarding folk had long been held in awe and respect by Muggles, but in the cultural upheavals of the fifteen- and sixteen-hundreds, they began to look to the use of magic as a possible edge in their religious wars. Of course, all the courts of Europe employed wizards and witches in various capacities, but many of them refused to use magic against their countrymen, even when threatened and tortured. There followed attempts to convince schools of magic to accept Muggles as students, but these were naturally refused, as the use of magic is not possible without the underlying genetic spark. As a result, Wizarding folk came to be regarded as enemies of the ruling powers, and the Muggle civil wars spilled over into persecution of witches and wizards.

"The International Confederation of Wizards, having failed in their attempts to secure protection from the monarchies, proposed the Statutes of Secrecy to conceal the existence of practitioners of magic from the Muggle population. As a result, civil war – _our_ War - broke out between the Wizarding factions who supported the Statutes, and those who held to the superiority of our people and believed that we should overthrow the Muggle governments and take control of the world ourselves."

"That's where all of this came from?" Harry asked, incredulous.

"Exactly. The War has continued down through the years between those who support the Ministry and prefer to continue to live safely in hiding, and those who desire to live openly and practice magic as freely, as did our ancestors."

"Now I know why they have Binns teaching History of Magic," Harry said. "He's so boring that no one ever really pays attention to what he says. If people really knew what had happened all that time ago and how that's the reason why their kids can't play Quidditch in the streets, they would be outraged." He paused, eyes aglow with sudden realization. "That's why the Muggle-born and half-bloods are such big concerns of yours, isn't it? Theoretically, some of them could blend Muggle technology with magic and wreak havoc."

The Dark Lord nodded. "Now you know the dirty secret the Ministry tries to keep quiet."

"Merlin! This is too much all at once." Harry took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "It's making my head hurt. Hermione reads everything. Hasn't anyone written a book about this?"

Voldemort knew he had to move forward to capitalise on his success thus far. "The information is carefully suppressed by the Ministry, of course. But my Great Grand-Uncle had an extensive library, and I believe I saw one or two titles that have bearing on our discussion." He stood up, permitting himself the luxury of a smile. "Come upstairs with me, and I'll show you. In fact, that's where the supply of potions ingredients are kept. I'll put together something for your headache."

Harry stood up a bit unsteadily. "I don't feel very well right now. I think I'll ask your Housekeeper for that cup of tea, if you don't mind."

"The kitchen is just through there." Voldemort pointed out the way and hurried along the corridor to the stairs. He wondered whether he might be able to convince Harry to stay the night. The longer he could hold the younger wizard's interest, the likelier it seemed that he would help him fulfil Merlin's prophecy.

A candle burst into light as he entered the study and he quickly found the books he was looking for. As he scanned the labelled jars of herbs, he thought he heard an unfamiliar voice downstairs. He supposed that he was probably about to meet the hitherto unseen Mr. Hatchet. He carried the books and herbs downstairs with a spring in his step.

The parlour was empty, so he set the books down and took the herbs to the kitchen. Mrs. Hatchet was busy at the stove and turned as he entered, wiping her hands on a towel.

"Where is Harry?" he asked with unaccustomed directness.

"Oh, your Lordship, it were the most amazing thing! One of the neighbour lads stopped by, sent by his mother with some preserves. He'd found a bedraggled owl along the way, exhausted and bewildered, poor thing, and what do you think? When your Harry took a look at it, he found that the creature had carried a message for him!" She chuckled to herself.

The Dark Lord set down the jars of white willow bark and lemongrass on the kitchen table, feeling a dull ache begin at his temples.

"The boys left together, and Harry said to tell you that he'd be back in a few days to continue your project. Would you care for some tea? I just made a fresh pot."

"No, thank you," he managed after a moment. "But I will take some of that hot water. I feel I have a headache coming on, and I need to brew a potion for it."

* * *

**Notes:** The Witchwood is based on a real place: The Royal Forest of Wychwood in Oxfordshire, England, which is a vestige of the primeval forest which once covered Britain. The area has been settled since at least 3000 B.C.E. The remains of Neolithic barrows, Roman villas, and Saxon settlements indicate the long history of human settlement of the Wychwood. Rich local folklore attests to the belief that Otherworldly creatures have also inhabited the landscape.

Many interesting villages have grown up around the ancient forest. Spellton is my own invention, but is very loosely based on the real parish of Spelsbury.

I strongly endorse The Wychwood Project, an organization that aims to raise awareness of and appreciation for the history of the forest, to maintain and enhance wildlife habitats, and ensure a sustainable future for the landscape. You can support the Wychwood by volunteering, becoming a member of the Friends of the Wychwood, or dedicating a tree at the Wychwood project website: www dot wychwoodproject dot org

**Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment!**


	8. Chapter 8

_"You know quite well, deep within you, that there is only a single magic, a single power, a single salvation…and that is love."_

Hermann Hesse

**Author's Notes: **For the first time in a long time, I've written more than one chapter in a year! My work schedule has changed and if you, my dear readers, continue to have interest in this story, I will hopefully have both the time and inspiration to update more frequently!

This story is basically canon compliant through Order of the Phoenix.

Once more, I owe a debt of thanks to my first fan and dedicated beta**, hobtheknife**.

* * *

A lifetime of habit made Harry pause just outside the kitchen door when he heard voices from the other side.

"…obvious injuries," a man's was saying.

"He's lost a few feathers. Been in a fight, I expect." That disapproving voice belonged to Mrs. Hatchet. Harry also heard familiar, high-pitched chittering noises and realized that they must be examining an owl. "They do say that discretion is valor's better-"

"Watch out!" Harry strained his ears in the ensuing silence. "Are you all right?"

"Oh, aye. Takes more than a wee nip like that to harm me." The Housekeeper made a terrible sound like metal grinding against metal that Harry only gradually realized was laughter.

"He's much more alert than when I first found him. When he seems ready to fly, I'll take him out to the edge of the Witchwood. He's a lovely little fellow. I wonder where he came from?"

"He'll not want to leave if you keep scratching his neck like that."

Harry pushed the door open just far enough to peer into the room. The Housekeeper's back was toward him and Harry looked past her to the kitchen's other occupants: a young man with curly brown hair cradling a small, bedraggled bundle of brown feathers in the crook of one arm. Harry's mouth dropped open; he could scarcely believe his eyes.

"I should try to find you something to eat," the young man said to the owl.

"There are plenty o' rats in the barn-" Mrs. Hatchet began.

"-but the biggest snake you ever saw is out there hunting some right now," Harry finished, stepping into the kitchen. He grinned at the startled expression on the other man's face. "Hi, Ewan."

"Harry? What in the world-?" It took a moment for the Mage to recover from the surprise and then a smile appeared on his face. "You must know all about owls. What you think about this one?"

"Well, we studied them in Care of Magical Creatures but I don't know _all_ about them." Feeling inexplicably embarrassed at the Mage's obvious pleasure in seeing him again, Harry hid his expression by stooping down to look closely at the little owl. "Where'd you find him?" he asked, gingerly reaching out to pet the bird.

"Mum sent me over with something for Mrs. Hatchet and he just fell out of the branches while I was walking through the Witchwood. He was dazed, but otherwise seemed in good condition. I've heard other people mention they'd found owls in the Wood – someone happened on a parrot a few years ago - but I've never found one before." The young Mage fell silent and Harry smiled to himself. _He must really like me to babble on that way. Blimey, maybe he fancies me… _He looked up and saw that Ewan was blushing.

"Can I take him?" Harry asked.

Ewan nodded. "Careful, he's still wobbly."

Harry gently scooped up the owl, feeling a warm tingle as his fingers brushed against the young Mage's hand. He looked up to meet Ewan's honey-brown eyes. _Maybe_ _I fancy him, too._

The little owl began to weakly flap his wings. Then, without further warning, he bent in half and coughed, disgorging a tightly compressed roll of paper onto Mrs. Hatchet's spotless floor.

The Housekeeper scowled at the offending mess. "So that was his problem! Swallowed someone's message."

Ewan picked up the scroll and examined it. "I don't see an address," he muttered, turning it this way and that. "Wait, there could be something here." He walked over to the sink and held the paper up to the light from the window. "You won't believe it," he told Harry. "It's for you."

Harry unrolled the scroll and read:

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_Our Uncle, Elphias Doge, passed away quietly this morning. His mind remained lucid to the end and among his last words to family and friends he said, "Tell Harry Potter…" He did not finish the sentence, but the fact that he was thinking about you at the end seemed something significant that we thought you should know._

_We know that you share our sorrow at the end of his well-lived life, and our pride in his many accomplishments. We will send details as soon as the funeral arrangements have been finalized, and hope you will be able to attend_

_Sincerely,_

_Tahlia and Sopheia Doge_

Harry felt a vague sense of sadness at the news. The old man had always seemed to embody the better-natured side of his partner Dumbledore's character: wisdom tempered with kindliness. Harry supposed that someone new would be appointed to fill his place on the secret committee that governed the Crystal Cave and wondered for a moment how that person would be chosen – and by whom.

"I hope it's not bad news," Ewan murmured.

Harry sighed. "Just another reminder that I need to get back to London."

The clock in the hallway chimed four o'clock. "Time to take your owl outside, boys," the Housekeeper told them brusquely. "I need to get this mess cleaned up so I can start supper."

Ewan hurriedly opened the door to the backyard. "Mum said she'll stop by in the morning to go to market with you."

"Remember to thank her for me," Mrs. Hatchet called.

Harry belatedly remembered that there was a Dark Lord in the house, one who had gone upstairs to get some books on Wizarding history. and who would soon be expecting him back in the parlour. "Erm…Mrs. Hatchet, could you let _him_ know that I had to leave? I'm going to be busy for a few days but I'll be back."

"Yes, of course, young Harry," she replied absently. She had already set a kettle of water to on the stove to boil and was busy shaving a bar of soap into a bucket with a sturdy work knife.

Harry followed Ewan through the door, down the steps and out to the yard. The house had been oppressive stuffy and Harry inhaled deeply of the fresh air while the owl clicked his beak in irritation at the sunlight.

"How are you getting back to London?" Ewan asked, looking around significantly. "I don't suppose you drove here."

"No, I still haven't learned how," Harry admitted. "I Apparated."

"You mean that you transported yourself here with magic," Ewan translated. "Is that spell something like the talisman Mr. Scrimgeour's assistant sent to take us to London, and bring us back after the meeting?"

"Not exactly. It sounds as if you had a Portkey and that only works to take you to a specific place. Once you learn to Apparate, you can go anywhere, or no place in particular. It's an advanced technique we learn in our fifth year at schoo,l and then have to pass an exam in order to get a license. They say people have been known to leave bits of themselves behind, so the Ministry wants some sort of assurance that students are capable of doing it properly."

"Your brand of magic not only works faster, it seems a lot more dangerous than ours." The Mage hesitated. "Are you in a hurry to go?"

Harry shrugged. "Depends."

Ewan's warm smile reappeared. "We live in Spellton Village, just through those trees. Come on, I'll show you our house. But I have to warn you that Mum just wrapped up a project so it's a bit of a mess just now."

Harry wasn't especially looking forward to going home. When he'd returned from the Ministry earlier, a message had been waiting from Neville's grandmother inviting him to dinner. He had immediately owled Hermione and Ron to find out if they could go with him, but Nagini had been so insistent to go that he hadn't been able to wait for their replies. He didn't particularly want to spend an evening alone with the formidable Augusta Longbottom, and Ewan's offer was a welcome, if temporary, reprieve. "Yeah," he said gratefully. "I'd like to see your place."

"Brilliant!" Ewan turned and led Harry to the boundary of the Hatchet's yard. They stepped onto a well-worn path that led into the darkness beneath the trees.

"Stay close and pay attention," the Mage warned over his shoulder. "I know where I'm going, but sometimes these paths try to take you to wherever your thoughts might be wandering. There are stories about people who have gotten lost in here and turn up years later, looking as young as when they disappeared."

"D'you think things like that really happen?" Harry scoffed. "It sounds like a story made up to make kids behave or to keep outsiders away."

"Oh, it's true. Take the shortcuts, for example. The Witchwood is miles across but there are branches off the main path that can take you all the way to the other side in just a few steps. We use them all the time. On the other hand, sometimes magical creatures wander in from the next world over."

"What kind of creatures?" Harry unconsciously increased his speed to keep a steady pace just behind the Mage.

"Unicorns, werewolves, griffins, manticores. Faery folk, too."

Harry noticed that the undergrowth was thicker than that of the Forbidden Forest, and it occurred to him that the strange creatures he had encountered in the woods outside Hogwarts just might have come there by similar sort of inter-dimensional path. He was beginning to feel a familiar uneasiness, and tried to keep his tone light as he asked, "Have you seen a lot of fairies?"

Ewan shook his head, a dark shape ahead on the forest path. "The Faery Folk aren't those little, winged things you see in the movies and on TV. They're usually taller and more handsome than humans. People say that they used to come around more often. Our teachers think they might be deterred by pollution in the air and water, maybe by the airwaves from the wireless towers, too. Do those things affect your magic?"

"Not that I've noticed. I can do magic on a street corner in downtown London, but electronics don't work at Hogwarts or at my house. I guess the wards mess with it."

Ewan stopped to allow Harry to come up alongside. There were soft rustlings in the branches above and down in the undergrowth. Harry looked around a bit nervously. "This place is sort of creepy," he said, immediately regretting his words.

Ewan chuckled, and the sound was almost sinister in the gloom of the Witchwood. "You probably haven't spent as much time in the wild as I have. Listen." He halted on the path and Harry stopped at his side. "What do you hear?" the Mage asked quietly.

"Birds," Harry said promptly. Their chirping rang loudly through the trees.

"Good. What else?"

Harry strained his ears. "Leaves rustling."

"Those are small animals foraging. There might be deer around, but we'd only hear them if they ran. Believe me, you'd know if there was anything in here to worry about. Everything would be very still…until whatever it was attacked, and then there would be an explosion of sound."

"What about people?"

"People are noisy, even when they're observing nature, so nothing to worry about there." He peered intently at Harry. "Unless you mean me."

Harry was caught off guard. From their brief encounter earlier, the Mages seemed to be fairly harmless, but Ewan's change in manner made him wonder if he'd misjudged them. "I don't know," he said slowly. "_Should_ I be worried about you?"

"Mr. Scrimgeour certainly is. He doesn't like Gavin, and the rest of us are guilty by association. He thinks we're going to upset the status quo - and maybe we will. Personally, I think it was a monumental mistake for you wizards to try to keep your use of magic a secret, and I'm completely against having to swear an oath to protect that secret if that's the price he asks for admission to the Wizarding world. So tell me, Harry: should I be worried about you?"

Harry felt a chill that wasn't entirely due to the trees blocking out the light of the sun. He unconsciously shifted the owl nestled in the crook of his left arm, as his right hand drifted toward the handle of his concealed wand. "Me? Why would you think that?"

"It was a strange coincidence, meeting you at Spellton Yews this afternoon," the Mage remarked.

"I mentioned in the Chapel that I had to go meet someone…"

"And apparently that 'someone' happens to be Cornelius Eldritch's long lost heir who, again, just happened to appear out of thin air yesterday to occupy Spellton Yews. That's quite a burden to place on coincidence." He frowned. "Did the Minister ask you to spy on us, Harry? Was his Lordship sent here to keep us in our place?"

"His Lordship," Harry grimaced at the title, "is not in any position to make anyone do anything. He's in disgrace. He's only here because he has no one to turn to, and nowhere else to go."

It was Ewan's turn to be confused. "Mrs. Hatchet said you're his friend."

Harry shook his head vehemently. "He hurt a lot of people, and I was one of them. I confronted him, but he was so pathetic that I felt sorry for him. He has an opportunity to make up for some of the harm he caused."

"By doing what?"

Harry shook his head. "I can't tell you anything else about it. But I give you my word that it doesn't have anything to do with your people."

"So you're not working with Mr. Scrimgeour?"

"I wouldn't put it past him to have someone watching the Mages, but it isn't me. I've got good reason not to like him. Do you want to know why?"

Ewan nodded.

"Okay." Harry took a deep breath and began. "There was a Dark wizard who did terrible things. He used forbidden magic to try to make himself immortal, and he killed my parents because there was a Prophecy that I would grow up to defeat him. When I got old enough, I joined an Order that had been formed to stop him and his followers. That's when I met Scrimgeour. See, even though the Ministry wasn't doing anything to stop the Dark wizard, he wanted me to tell everyone what a good job his Aurors were doing just so people would feel safe. I thought that was wrong, and he didn't like it when I refused to help him. Still with me?"

"Yes." Ewan seemed fascinated by the story.

"There was a battle a few days ago between the Order and the Death Eaters, and I finally defeated the Dark Lord. Mr. Scrimgeour wants to hand out medals, and try to make everyone think that the Prophecy came true because the Aurors and the Order worked together. He called me to the Ministry today to remind me that, because some of my friends in the Order work for the Ministry – or did before…" Harry swallowed, remembering, and took another breath. "He has the power to fire them, or deny their families benefits because they were involved with the Order."

"That's terrible!" Ewan's outrage seemed genuine.

"I agreed to support the Ministry in public as long as he treats my friends fairly," Harry continued, feeling a flush of remembered anger from that morning. "If he doesn't, I can go to the papers and tell them what really happened, how little the Ministry did, and who the real heroes are. As far as I'm concerned, Scrimgeour owes _me_."

"Your tale is incredible, Harry! I grew up listening to the old legends but I never imagined there could be great battles and mighty deeds in the world today. It didn't seem possible that there could still be great heroes among us."

"I'm not-," Harry began.

"What you and your friends accomplished was incredibly brave! Parents will tell your story to their children, just like my parents told me the tales of Prince Merlin and Prince Gwyddion." His eyes fired with excitement. "I'd love to compose that poem! One day we should sit down together, and you can tell me everything, and I'll take notes!"

Harry had been about to make a self-effacing reply, but the word 'prince' had been simmering in this thoughts, and he blurted, "We don't have royalty in the Wizarding world. Why did you call Merlin a Prince?"

"Because his mother was a princess," the Mage answered promptly. "No one knows for certain who his father was. Some think it was Aurelianus Ambrosius, a Roman general stationed in Britain. The monks who wrote the chronicles said Merlin's father was a demon. I've always wondered if his father was one of the Faerie folk." Ewan paused and his expression was contrite. "I'm sorry to have doubted you, Harry and I understand completely if you don't want to have anything else to do with me. But if you'll forgive me, I'd still like to show you our house and introduce you to my Mum."

Harry checked his watch. "It's only four-thirty, so I've still got time. I have to get back to London to have dinner with the grandmother of one of my friends who…"

"I won't keep you long," Ewan promised.

They continued along the path for a few minutes in a companionable silence. After a time, Ewan pointed ahead to a break in the trees. "That's where we're going. Spellton Village is just through there."

They emerged to stand blinking on the edge of the Witchwood, and the owl on Harry's arm flapped and started to complain again at the sudden brightness. A meadow of tall brown grasses interspersed with purple, yellow and white flowers lay before them, but what riveted Harry's attention was a cluster of enormous boulders that rose imposingly before them.

"Bloody hell, what is that?"

Ewan chuckled. "Mum says it's an Orgone accumulator. My sister calls it a 5,000 year old Neolithic chamber tomb. Gavin says it's a gate to the Otherworld."

"English, please."

"It's just our backyard. Come on, I'll show you."

There was a trail across the field, and Harry gazed up at the massive formation with a sense of unreality as their path took them near, reminded of the stones he had seen with Voldemort in the Crystal Cave. "If that's a tomb," Harry asked in a hushed voice, "who was buried there?"

"A chieftain or hero, probably, but we don't really know. The only grave goods were some arrow heads and pottery shards." Ewan went right up to the ornate iron fence that protectively encircled the stones, and stood peering through with a foot on one of the bottom rails. "My family has a long history with this place. Dad grew up here in Spellton and, when he was at Oxford, some of his class took electromagnetic readings here. My sister Morgan did her dissertation on the site."

"Is it haunted?" Harry squinted across at the towering stone slabs balanced against each other like a giant's hut.

Ewan shook his head. "I don't think so. Whoever was interred here moved on a long time ago. Probably been to the Otherworld and back any number of times."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked surprised. "I thought people just went to heaven…or to the other place. I guess I never really gave it much thought."

"Some souls make the trip just once," Ewan acknowledged. "Others choose to be reincarnated. They go to the next world to rest, and evaluate what they learned in their life here on earth. When they're ready, they're reborn."

"Why would anyone want to come back? Isn't the next world supposed to be better than this one?"

"They say that great teachers and heroes choose rebirth to help humanity to become wiser and to protect the weak. Other people come back to right the mistakes they made in previous lives."

Harry briefly considered whether anyone he had known would choose to reborn. Cedric and Neville had died when they were young, but he didn't especially feel they would want to come back. Sirius, he decided. Sirius had felt strongly about taking care of his family and friends. Harry could imagine him choosing to return.

Ewan stepped away from the fence and beckoned Harry to follow. The path continued through the tall grass as it sloped gently down toward to grass covered mounds.

"More prehistoric tombs?" Harry guessed.

Ewan bestowed his warm smile upon Harry once more. "Home. That's where we live, the one with the overgrown garden."

Harry gaped at him. "You live inside a hill?"

Ewan laughed. "It's an earth-sheltered home. The turf covering the roof helps insulate and blends with the environment."

"Who's your neighbor?"

"Gavin. He and my dad were best mates. He's always been like an uncle to us kids." Ewan nodded to a small log building close by that had lots of windows on the upper floor. "That's Mum's studio. She's a famous artist. She paints tarots."

Harry tried to remember what he had been taught about the tarot in Professor Trelawney's class, but, like so much of his time at Hogwarts, he had been too preoccupied with matters that were both trivial and more important to have absorbed much of the material presented in class. He recalled that some of the cards had looked a lot like regular playing cards, but with different symbols in place of the familiar hearts, clubs, diamonds and spades. There were other cards, too, with intricate images and meanings that had been too complex for him to have memorized. "I was rubbish at Divination," he thought out loud.

"Whatever you do, don't tell Mum," Ewan warned. "That's her special talent. She'll make it her mission to help you discover a technique that you can use."

Harry followed him through the gate and into the gardens that surrounded the two buildings. From this side of the property, the house presented a surprisingly conventional appearance, with a long front porch and windows on both floors. Ewan went around directly to the studio. Harry noticed that there was no lock on the door; either Ewan's family was very trusting or, more likely, the house was protected by magic. But the Mage didn't say or do anything remotely like a charm before opening the door, and Harry followed him inside, bemused. The only other artist he had known was Luna. He wondered whether Ewan's mother's studio was similar to his friend's workspace, with every wall colorfully embellished with painted images.

It was dim and cool inside. The entire first floor appeared to be a storage area. Harry glimpsed tall cabinets with closed doors, tables holding piles of stacked canvasses wrapped in brown paper, scattered baskets of rags, and more canvasses leaning against the walls. "Why don't we let our friend perch over here in the dark while we go upstairs," Ewan suggested. Harry persuaded the tired owl to climb on the back of an old wooden chair, where he promptly tucked his beak beneath a wing and closed his eyes.

"Ewan!" a woman called. "Can you come up here?"

"Right away," Ewan answered. "Sorry about the mess," he said to Harry. "It's like this whenever she finishes a project. Most of the old canvasses get wrapped up, given away or sold to make room for her new ideas."

They climbed a short stairway to another large, open room. Natural light flooded through the windows, and Harry appreciated Ewan's thoughtfulness in leaving the owl downstairs. Easels with blank canvasses were carefully positioned across the room to take advantage of the illumination. The two short walls had more storage cabinets, and a woman in a pink shirt and orange overalls with a brightly patterned scarf covering brown curls was just cutting a piece of twine tying a package. "This is the last of it, dear," she said, straightening up with noticeable effort. "Morgan will be over this evening with the wagon to take them to the post office." She turned to them with a smile that Harry found familiar.

"Mum," Ewan said, "this is Harry."

"From the Ministry? My goodness, the world is a small place! Can you stay for supper? We'll be moving out the last pieces of 'The Tarot of the Sages' and having a celebration!"

"I wish I could-" Harry began.

"Believe me, you don't," Ewan interjected.

"-but I already have plans for tonight," Harry continued.

"-that don't entail back-breaking labor," Ewan finished.

"Ewan, don't be rude. Harry, don't apologize. You can call me Betony, and I'm happy to meet you." She reached for his hand but, instead of the handshake Harry expected, she drew him over to the windows and examined the palm of his hand. "Interesting," she murmured. "What is your birthday, dear?"

"July 31," he answered automatically.

"Leo!" She looked significantly at Ewan who responded with a roll of his eyes. "Very promising! Would you like to shuffle my cards?"

"Erm…" Harry looked at Ewan in alarm.

"Oh, Mum!"

Betony retrieved a deck of cards from the work table and pressed them into Harry's hands. "This is my deck. And by that I mean that I conceived, arranged, and painted each design on every card. Please. Indulge me."

Harry glanced at Ewan. "This is how she gets to know people," he explained. "Except she usually waits until they've had a chance to sit down and have a cup of tea first," he added.

Betony's smile was benevolent as Harry awkwardly shuffled the deck. "How many different tarots have you painted?" he asked, trying to bring some semblance of normalcy to the situation.

"Just three so far." She ticked them off on her fingers. "Windows to the Future. Seeds of Wisdom. Tarot of the Sages. That's enough, dear. Draw a card."

He squared the deck in his hands.

"Just pick one from anywhere in the deck," Ewan offered helpfully.

Something suggested that this was a fateful moment, that his choice was going to have unforeseen consequences, but Harry rejected the notion as absurd. He split the deck, selected a card and, without looking at, it handed it to Ewan's mother.

Betony examined the card. "Strength!" she announced, beaming at him. "Vitality, passion-"

"Patience in dealing with eccentric artists," Ewan interjected.

"-the wiser counterpart to the Magician. A wonderful card! I hope you will become a good friend, and visit often!"

"Thank you," Harry said, relieved that he had somehow managed to meet her expectations.

"Now that bit's over with, how about some tea before you have to go?" Ewan suggested.

Betony made sure both of them went downstairs with armloads of canvasses but, to be fair, she carried an equal number herself. Harry woke the owl, who refrained from trying to bite when Ewan introduced him to his mother, and then the four of them trooped over to the house. They perched the owl on a flower box on the shady side of the porch and went inside. Harry had supposed the earth-sheltered house would be dark and damp inside, but the first floor was essentially one big room that enjoyed plenty of light and warmth from the south-facing windows. Ewan informed him that several well-placed skylights provided illumination to the back rooms upstairs.

Betony's paintings decorated the walls, and Harry looked at some of them while Ewan put the kettle on the woodstove in the area that served as the kitchen.

"Where do you get the ideas for your cards?' Harry wondered, studying a picture of a woman in a garden with a bird perched on her arm. She was surrounded by plants that were heavy with tomatoes and peppers, as well as several incongruous metallic discs that looked like golden coins.

"Some of the imagery is standard for each card, but I get inspiration for the theme of the deck from the world around us. The idea for the Tarot of the Sages came to me when I was gardening."

"Do you have any idea how many varieties there are in the sage family?" Ewan complained. "I can tell you about all seventy-two of the ones she put in that deck."

While the tea brewed, Ewan showed Harry the family photographs that hung by the round dining table. Harry counted three girls and three boys. "Do you have any brothers or sisters?" Ewan asked.

Harry shook his head. "I'm an only child. My parents died when I was young, and my aunt and uncle took me in. I grew up with my cousin, Dudley, but we never got along very well. That side of the family isn't magical, and I was always an outsider."

Betony spread a brightly embroidered cloth over the table, and set out a basket of warm blueberry muffins with a plate of soft butter and jar of preserves. Ewan poured the tea, and Harry helped carry the mugs to the table.

"Finish those off those muffins," Ewan's mother told them. "Ali Hatchet mentioned that she's still getting berries from her bushes. I'll try to convince her to let me have some of them tomorrow."

Harry ate with restraint, refusing a third muffin. "I have to get back to London. I'm supposed to be having dinner with the grandmother of a friend."

Betony glanced at her son. "Gavin and Ewan said you had been involved in a magical battle. My goodness, Harry, you're an exceptional young man to have had such responsibility!"

"Two of my friends were killed in that fight," Harry said quietly.

Ewan and his mother looked shocked. "Oh, Harry," Ewan murmured. "I didn't realize…"

Betony placed a sympathetic hand over Harry's. "I'm very sorry to hear that. They were obviously selfless people, to fight at your side against injustice."

Harry nodded, not trusting himself at that moment to speak. After a moment, he folded his napkin and stood up. "Thank you for the tea," he told them.

"Please, Harry, come back to visit soon," Betony said. "I promise I won't ask you to carry canvasses for me next time. Speaking of which," she jumped up from her chair, "I'll meet you outside before you go." She hurried out the front door, leaving them alone together.

"I can take the owl back to London with me," Harry said to Ewan. "I'll be visiting the people he belongs to in a day or so."

"The message he brought you…"

"…said that another old friend passed away this morning. Looks as if I'll be going to a lot of funerals, and trying to make a lot of people feel better."

"And what about you, Harry?"

Harry blinked. "What you mean?"

"You've obviously been deeply affected by what happened your friends." Ewan expression was anxious. "You need to take care of yourself so that you have something left for those who will ask for your support and comfort. Treat yourself gently. Eat nourishing food. Sleep when you can."

"That's…good advice." Harry was so used to people demanding that he rush off to handle the latest emergency that he hardly knew what to make of Ewan's concern for his well-being. The Mage was so very different from anyone else Harry had ever known. Harry felt that he was close to discovering the source of a special kind of wisdom, and he wanted to stay and talk with Ewan long into the night - but Neville's Gran was expecting him for dinner and he needed to get in touch with Hermione and Ron. "Thanks, Ewan. I'll be back as soon as I can."

They went outside, and Ewan retrieved the little owl from the flower box. Harry held out his arm and winced a little as the bird hopped on, sharp talons graze his skin. "He seems healthy enough now."

"Harry!" Betony hurried over with a wrapped canvas in her hands. "I have a present for you!"

"You'll never guess what that is," Ewan quipped.

"You can open it when you get home, dear," she said, pointedly ignoring her son's remark.

Harry couldn't suppress a chuckle. "Thank you very much. I'm sure it will be…erm…inspirational." He let her tuck it under his free arm, and she gave his cheek a motherly kiss.

Ewan walked him to the gate, his smile shy once more. "I'll be glad to see you again, Harry. May Fortune attend you."

Harry made sure the owl was still perched securely, waved a reluctant goodbye and Disapparated before he could change his mind

**Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment!**


	9. Chapter 9

_You know quite well, deep within you, that there is only a single magic, a single power, a single salvation…and that is love."_

-Hermann Hesse

**Author's Notes: **What do you know: this fic hasn't been abandoned after all!Thanks to all of the wonderful readers who have waited so patiently for this update. I really intend not to keep you waiting long for the next chapter.

This story is basically canon compliant through Order of the Phoenix.

Thanks to my beta,** hobtheknife**, And special thanks to **Jade Tatsu**, for technical advice and encouragement!

* * *

_Two weeks._

That's how long it had been since he had left Harry waiting in the parlour while he went to fetch some books, and had come back to find that Harry had gone, suddenly called away by a message delivered by owl.

Two weeks in which he'd grown utterly bored of his confinement in the house to which he'd been bound by Merlin.

He had met with Mrs. Greengrass, the estate's solicitor, to be appraised of the value of his inheritance. His Great-uncle had left him a comfortable sum, one which would have seemed a fortune to the young Tom Riddle, enough to have liberated him from the dismal orphanage in London. He had been visited by a tailor who had taken his measurements and discussed fabric selections for new garments. He had sent for copies of the less controversial of his most-consulted magical reference books.

But he could not send for the one person who could help deliver his freedom, which was, after all, the one thing he wanted most. Merlin had said that would only be won with Harry's help, and Harry apparently had more important concerns.

Without realizing it had happened, the date on the front page of the Daily Prophet had become Voldemort's marker of the passing days. Each morning, after breakfast, he sat down with the day's newspapers, scanning the pages for clues to Merlin's prophecy about a 'great peril'. Although he had collected a neat stack of clippings, and had made several pages of notes, he felt no more enlightened than when he'd first begun. If great changes were at work in the Wizarding world, they were buried under mostly useless information.

Although Harry had yet to return, Voldemort saw his face often enough. The Boy Who Lived was back in the public eye, and with the official announcement of the defeat of the Dark Lord, Harry appeared to be permanently in the Ministry's good graces. And not only that, Voldemort cynically noticed, but Harry seemed to have acquired a new friend as well. Daily front-page photos showed Rufus Scrimgeour standing at Harry's side in solidarity, or hovering discretely in the background while Harry solemnly consoled his bereaved friends. It seemed a bit heavy-handed to someone who was an old hand at manipulating the opinions of the masses, but the evidence of readers' letters and opinions in the magazines indicated that the public was buying it and asking for more. "Robards' Dismissal Opens Opportunity for Potter" the Wizarding Times insinuated, while Witch Weekly gushed, "Could Harry Become Youngest Member of Wizengamot?"

Downstairs, a woman's voice called a cheerful-sounding greeting, to which Mrs. Hatchet made an indistinct reply. The kitchen door banged once. He was getting to know the routines of the house, and guessed the woman was probably a neighbour because she visited nearly every day to spend time in the kitchen talking with the Housekeeper. He hadn't actually seen the woman so far, but then he had yet to see the mysterious Mr. Hatchet, either, though he'd heard a deep, rumbling sort of voice and occasionally glimpsed a large shadow outside the windows.

Returning to the papers, he saw the photo gracing today's Prophet was of yesterday's medal presentation at the Ministry. Several young people wore tremulous smiles and their own newly-bestowed honours while Harry inclined head to receive the Order of Merlin from the Minister. Voldemort spent a moment wryly imaging the Editor of the Daily Prophet crumpling and discarding a crank letter that read:

_Dear Sir: _

_Awarding the Order of Merlin to Harry Potter is a national disgrace _

_because Lord Voldemort happens to be alive and well, and living _

_in a cottage in Oxfordshire!_

_Yours truly,_

_An Observant Reader_

The voices below grew louder, and there was a creak on the stair. The Housekeeper only came upstairs when someone wanted to speak with him and he wondered whether he'd read the situation downstairs incorrectly. Perhaps the solicitor, Laurel Greengrass, had returned with more information about the Eldritch estate? He stood up from the table, crossed the room, and opened the door at her first, tentative tap.

"Yes?" he said, automatically putting on a charming smile.

"Pardon, your Lordship, but one of the local Mages is here. She would like to welcome you to Spellton on behalf of their Council, if it wouldn't greatly interrupt your work." The Housekeeper watched him carefully, trying to gauge his reaction to the request.

Voldemort considered the matter carefully as well. With his ability to use magic incapacitated it was essential for him to stay in the Hatchet's good graces as long as possible. If spending a few moments being gracious to a neighbour would please Mrs. Hatchet, the intrusion was a small price to pay for the continuance of her magical protection. Furthermore, he felt confident that, even with his powers constrained, his ability to hold the upper hand in any given encounter was better than that of most people. And, aside from all that, the tedium had grown so tiresome that he was, frankly, curious. The Mages, he'd been taught at school, had been absorbed into the mainstream of British Wizarding society long before the time of the founding of Hogwarts. Had they truly managed to keep their odd blend of superstition and magic alive all these years, or was this Council a new movement of some sort?

"Of course," he agreed, with a polite nod. "I won't keep her waiting for very long."

Mrs. Hatchet favoured him with one of her horrible smiles, bobbed a curtsy and hurried downstairs. He checked his reflection in the glass of a framed botanical print and followed a few moments later.

The Housekeeper nodded toward the parlour and trailed behind him. "Your Lordship, may I present Mrs. Betony Hollis of the Council of Mages."

He'd expected an old woman, someone sombre and, perhaps, self-important. He supposed she would be wearing a hooded robe and ostentatiously carry a staff of power.

His visitor came as a bit of a surprise.

She was a middle-aged woman with a friendly, open smile and brown curly hair. She was wearing sandals, a skirt made of patches in a multitude of colours, and a plain blue t-shirt. The informality of her garments made him suspect that this meeting had been a spur of the moment arrangement prompted by the Housekeeper. When she bowed to him with good-humoured awkwardness, he saw in her brown eyes a genuine warmth to which he was quite unaccustomed. "Welcome to Spellton, your Lordship. Your Uncle was a great friend to our Order, and we hope to cultivate an equally cordial friendship with you."

She extended her hand in the Muggle fashion and, bemused, he wrapped his long fingers around hers. He was more than a bit surprised by the sense of magic emanating from her touch.

She gazed down at his hand with interest, and reluctantly drew her own away when he released his grasp.

"Oh! Here, I have a gift for you!" She reached in a pocket of her voluminous skirt, pulled out a rectangular object and pressed it into his hand. "I'm an artist. I design and paint tarot decks. This one is called the Seeds of Wisdom. Are you at all familiar with the Tarot?"

"I studied it a long time ago," he admitted. He fanned the cards, face down. The colourful backs depicted a table spread with books, pots and packets of seeds. A window looked out over a tilled patch of earth.

She startled him by reaching out a hand to cover the cards. "If you like – I know this is terribly sudden and we don't know each other - but I could do a reading for you. That is, it seems fortuitous to do it right now, if you have the time. But, naturally, if you'd rather, I could come back another time..."

Voldemort was cautious by nature. There were sound reasons why he might not want a stranger to know his history, his problems, his plans. Moreover, there were numerous reasons why he might not want this particular stranger to know those things about him. But there was only one good reason to accept her offer: he was powerless. He could not manipulate magic to see the future for himself, and there was no one else to whom he could turn for advice of the sort he needed. "That would be generous, indeed," he acceded, squaring the deck.

Betony smiled and looked around. "We need a table," she began.

Mrs. Hatchet stepped in and swept a lace doily and vase from a small round table in the corner of the room. She lifted the piece of furniture easily with just one hand, and set it down between two brocade upholstered wing chairs. "There you go," she said breezily.

"Thank you dear," Betony called as the Housekeeper left the room, tactfully closing the door behind her.

Voldemort gestured for Betony to choose one of the chairs and he sat down across from her.

"This will just be a simple reading," she told him, unfolding a silk cloth that she'd pulled from another pocket and arranging it on the table between them. "You haven't had time to explore these cards yet, and I don't wish to intrude upon your privacy. You should know that I am an ethical practitioner and I never share what the cards say with anyone else. Not even," she added, raising her eyebrows mischievously, "with my dear friend Allie Hatchet. So, go ahead, shuffle the deck. While you do that, focus on an area in your life for which you'd like guidance."

He centred himself and began to mix the cards in his hands. With a clear mind, he began to concentrate on his most urgent concern: his imprisonment. How long would he be confined to Spellton Yews? When would Harry return? How long would it take for the event Merlin had predicted to occur? After a minute or so, he squared the deck and looked inquiringly at Betony.

The Mage indicated that he should place the deck in the centre of the silk square and watched him with her head tilted to one side. "You attended Hogwarts, I presume?" she asked.

"And other places after that." He found her presumption irritating and added, with a hint of malice, "And where have you studied?"

She appeared not to have noticed the intended challenge. "London. Cornwall. A tiny village outside Edinburgh. And I received instruction in divination here in the Witchwood, from a gentleman of the Fair Folk."

He stared at her, unimpressed. There was no point in revealing how little he knew of the Mages' training.

She peered at him more closely. "Your aura is difficult to read. Has it always been that way, or is it something you're doing intentionally?"

Now, that was interesting. He hesitated. "It's something that's been done to me."

She nodded once and did not pursue the subject. "Please draw eleven cards from the deck."

He selected the cards randomly from the pack. Betony positioned each card face down on the silk cloth as he gave them to her.

"The inspiration for this particular deck grew from my interest in gardening. I will describe each card and relate the meaning commonly assigned to it. Your task will be to decide how each card pertains to your personal circumstances."

He was becoming impatient, but maintained a cool exterior.

She turned over the first card. "This represents you." He saw a bearded man at the desk depicted on the back of the cards. "The King of Scythes is consulting an almanac to determine the proper time for planting. He is an analytical person. Does that description seem accurate?"

He nodded.

"Well, that's a good start. We'll go on. This next card describes your present situation." She turned it over; a man with a bandaged head leaned against a staff. Other staves were stacked against a plank wall behind him. "Nine of Staves: someone who has survived a battle or is being tested."

He lifted one shoulder in a slight shrug.

Betony pursed her lips as she studied the next card. "I'm still rather pleased with the way this one turned out." A gardener was squatting down to peer at two rabbits, who were looking out between the wires of a cage. "Does your birthday chance to fall at the end of December?"

Voldemort remembered to breathe; seers, after all, were supposed to _see _things. "Yes."

"This card happens to be closely associated with your birth sign. It represents the cause of your current situation. Now, there is a bit of controversy about the way it should be interpreted. Some feel the reading should centre on the plight of the rabbits, which have been trapped because of their uncontrolled appetites. But others suggest that the focus should instead be on the gardener, who foolishly assumes that capturing these animals means that his vegetables are safe. Either way, the card depicts the consequences of foolish or unacceptable behaviour. Karma, if you like."

He couldn't help but notice that she didn't look at him for a reaction, but instead reached for another card. The mark of a professional, he reasoned.

"This one indicates your abilities and experience." A farmer holding a torch aloft stood between two gate posts, gazing out over vast cultivated fields. "The Two of Staves is a card of vision and power. But it is also a warning, for, as you can see, the land owner is playing with fire."

The Dark Lord waited, impassive.

The next card she turned over was illustrated with a burning silo. "This card represents the recent past. The Tower depicts an abrupt disaster or an unwelcome transition." She looked up at him. "Does this still seem to make sense?"

"Somewhat," he allowed. Although being given a different perspective could often be useful, it was always unsettling for a stranger to have access to his secrets like this. Even the Hatchets weren't aware that a personal calamity had brought him here, or that he was a virtual prisoner at Spellton Yews. Fortunately, they were almost half-way through the reading.

He sat very still when she revealed the next card for, in spite of the homely guise, he immediately recognised the figure standing with upraised staff and a glowing, double-curved figure hovering above his head as the Prince. "The Magician," Betony pronounced. "This card describes the forces influencing your destiny. It was actually rather a difficult card for me to illustrate for this particular deck. The Magician exemplifies self-mastery and mastery of the world. Incorporating all his symbolism in the image of a master gardener was quite a challenge."

_Kassapraxities again_, he thought. _I've spent my entire adult life trying to fulfil his decree and yet here I sit, exiled from my kind, while others claim to hear his voice..._

She reached for the next card. "This one represents events in your near future." The card she turned over showed a woman regarding seedlings sprouting in a triangular garden patch demarcated by a bit of twine strung between upright staves at each corner. "The Three of Wands indicates a risky endeavour, but one with a potential for great success."

He frowned. That could, he supposed, refer equally to the efforts of Lucius and the others with the European Wizengamot, or to the 'great peril' of Merlin's prophecy.

"The next card reveals how you see yourself." Two people wrapped in heavy winter coats and scarves trudged through snow, heads bent against the wind. Behind them, light glowed through a window of old-fashioned bull's-eye glass. "The Five of Coins can either signify being in exile, or seeking sanctuary."

_Or, in this case, both._ He wondered whether this session would provide any information of actual value to him.

Betony flashed a reassuring smile. "We're nearly done." She turned over a card illustrated with children playing among tubs filled with vigorous plants that were heavy with colourful blooms and ripe vegetables. In the background, a woman with a rake over her shoulder was walking into a barn. "This card represents how others see you. The Six of Cups signifies nostalgia for a time that seems less complicated."

And that, he thought, applied equally well to his followers and, apparently, to those who had known his Great-Grand-Uncle.

He sat up a bit straighter when she turned over the next card. It depicted a child watering plants with a sprinkling can. He had unruly, dark hair, and eyes of an extraordinary green. "This card suggests your hopes and fears. The Star symbolizes hope, fulfilment, and immortality or, rather, fame. But it can also foretell disappointment and obscurity."

The child's appearance reminded him of Harry. Why did it always seem that Voldemort's future depended on him?

She turned over the last card. "And finally, this signifies the likely outcome to your present situation." The illustration was of a man walking through a field beneath a full harvest moon. He was threading this way between baskets piled high with the bounty of the harvest, and he leaned on a staff as if he had a great distance to travel. "Eight of cups. This is someone who has finished one project and embarked upon another. I believe this is a good omen."

He felt a surge of something like hope as he studied the card. He would finally be permitted to depart from this place!"What is the time-frame for all this to come to pass?" he asked, his voice betraying little emotion.

"Usually, three to six months."

Betony watched as his eyes moved across the fabric, tracing his destiny from card to card. "You seem disappointed," she ventured. "You didn't learn as much as you'd hoped,"

"Oh, I'm not dissatisfied," he assured her. "I'm an impatient man, and I'd hoped for a swift resolution to this business."

"Significant change doesn't happen overnight."

He looked at her sharply, but her distant gaze and relaxed posture indicated that she hadn't meant the observation as a challenge

"I believe," she continued, "that you're meant to use this time to gather your strength for the task that lies ahead."

He considered her advice, and nodded. "You have a gift," he admitted grudgingly.

"It can be a fearful business, in many ways," she answered, meeting his eyes at last. "That's why I concentrate on designing the cards more than reading them. Unless you would like to pursue another inquiry, you may gather up the cards."

He swept the cards from the silk cloth and added them to the rest of the deck, while she folded the silk fabric and returned it to her pocket.

"If it wouldn't be inconvenient, there are other members of my Council who would like to call on you. One of them, Dr. Scarsebrook, is quite elderly and actually remembers your Uncle. He mentioned that Mr. Eldritch was very kind to him when he was a child."

Voldemort wasn't especially looking forward to the visit, but the Tarot reading had reminded him of things he hadn't thought about in a while. He supposed he had inherited a few responsibilities along with the sanctuary afforded him by Spellton Yews. It seemed that he owed a debt of gratitude to his Great-grand-uncle, and, perhaps, extending this small courtesy to the Mages would help restore a balance. And, as long as he was an exile, caged like those rabbits on the card, any sort of allies he might acquire would be welcome. "Of course. Have them make arrangements with Mrs. Hatchet."

Betony extended her hand once more. "Thank you, your Lordship. It has truly been a pleasure."

He grasped her hand. "Thank you, Mrs. Hollis." As an afterthought he added, "I haven't often encountered someone as nice as you are."

She leaned a little closer to him, a twinkle in her eye, and whispered, "I'm not as vulnerable as you think."

He couldn't help admiring her pluck "I am certain of that," he replied, bowing low over her hand as Miss Hepzibah had taught him to do all those years ago.

There was a discrete tap on the door.

"Yes?" he called.

"Pardon, your Lordship," Mrs. Hatchet said without apparent contrition. "Betony, the mister is wondering when you want the wood delivered for the bonfire."

"Thanks. Tell Garnak I'll be right out." She turned back to Voldemort. "As you are doubtless aware, the festival of Samhain is tonight." She pronounced it 'sow'en' and it took him a moment to recall that the word was an earlier name for Halloween. "We're having a gathering to mark the celebration. It's a simple affair, but you would be most welcome to join us."

He paused for a heartbeat. The fact was, he didn't know whether the terms of his imprisonment permitted him to leave the cottage. He had dared so much as to open a window or to step outside during the past week for fear of the consequences. "Perhaps I will stop by later," he lied smoothly.

"I will see you soon in any case," she said and, leaving him with the warmth of her smile, turned to walk toward the kitchen in a rustle of brilliant patchwork.

Later that night, when the cottage was empty and dark, he sat silently in the dining room, watching through the windows as the shadows of late afternoon dissolved into a moonless night. Mrs. Hatchet had left after clearing away his dinner plates and, for the first time since arriving at Spellton Yews, he was alone.

He was grateful for the luxury of solitude, and rose to pour himself a glass of the mead that the Housekeeper had left out for him. Sipping it, he stood before the glass doors that opened from the dining room to the garden, and looked out into the darkness. He imagined the Hatchets standing companionably with Betony Hollis, relaxed among the Mages clustered near a blazing bonfire, toasting the advent of the Celtic New Year.

On a whim, he touched the ornate door handle. Pressing down, heard the mechanism click, and felt the glass-paned door move outward as it was released. Fresh air brushed his face, and the chirping of late-season insects met his ears.

And he froze in sudden doubt. The terms Merlin had decreed were obtuse. Was he permitted to step outside the walls of his Great-uncle's home, or were the grounds forbidden to him? What might happen if he stepped outside?

Confronted with the choice of possible fatality and certain sanctuary, his choice was clear. Grasping the handle, he pulled the door closed. He exhaled a breath of relief when the latch caught, and stepped away from the enticement of freedom.

He had just finished the mead in his glass and turned to refill it at the sideboard, when he heard a soft noise from the front of the house.

He waited, listening. A few seconds passed, and he heard the sound again.

The cottage was securely warded against magical intrusion, and Mrs. Hatchet seemed a careful sort of person, one who would lock doors and close windows against the cool night air. There was little in the house of value to attract a thief…

It dawned on him that probably the single most significant thing Spellton Yews contained was… himself.

Reflexively, he reached for his wand and silently cursed, not for the first time, when he remembered it had been taken from him. Fine. There were plenty of mundane ways to defend himself, and objects in the house that could be used as weapons against either an opportunistic intruder or an adversary with something more specific in mind.

He quietly opened the door to the kitchen and, with his eyes already adjusted to the darkness, looked around for the first time. A door set between the cupboards turned out to be a utility closet, and he selected a broom with a stout handle. From a block on one of the countertops, he drew a short, slender knife. The blade proved reassuringly sharp when he drew his finger across the edge, and he set it carefully in the left pocket of his coat. Thus armed, he glided back to the dining room and stood, listening.

His ears strained to hear anything out of the ordinary, but it was impossible for him to be certain that anything was amiss. Grimacing each time a misplaced step caused a floorboard to creak beneath his weight, he moved through the hallway, broomstick held ready in a guard position.

A soft glow reflected on the polished floor as he approached the parlour and he frowned. Surely Mrs. Hatchet hadn't left a fire in the hearth?

And then, an unmistakable sound halted his progression: something irregular and wheezing, like the laboured breathing of an ill or elderly person.

His skin prickled in anxiety, and for the tiniest moment he understood one of humanity's most primal fears: was Spellton Yews haunted?

And then his training took over, and he shook his head dismissively. After all, if Cornelius Eldritch was a ghost, Voldemort welcomed the opportunity to speak with him.

He dropped the broom to a more casual position, turned the corner, and looked through the doorway.

The fireplace emitted a faint, unnatural light that cast into shadow the being standing before it. White, wispy hair covered the head, and it leaned heavily on a cane. As if sensing the presence of another in the room, the stooped figure turned toward the door, and the glow from the fireplace illuminated its features.

Voldemort recoiled at the sight of his own face. It was wizened with age, the eyes dim with the passage of years. The body was hunched and feeble, but it lurched towards him, wheezing with effort.

"Fool!" he heard it rasp. "Fool! You will grow old and die in this place!"

The creature reached out with a wizened hand to clutch at his throat.

He stumbled backward, and tripped over the broom. There was no time to catch himself, and he fell, striking his head on the iron umbrella stand. There was an instant of blazing white light, and then darkness engulfed him.

With each beat of his pulse, blood poured from the gash in his scalp, darkening the colours of the flowers on the antique rug.

The boggart loomed over the unconscious Dark Lord, tittering mindlessly, and bent to feed upon his fear.

**Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment!**


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